THOREAU 
THE     POET-NATURALIST 


THOREAU 
THE    POET-NATURALIST 

WITH    MEMORIAL    VERSES 

BY    WILLIAM   ELLERY   CHANNING 

'I 
NEW    EDITION,    ENLARGED 

EDITED    BY  F.    B.    SANBORN 


MY  GREATEST  SKILL  HAS  BEEN  TO  WANT  BUT  LITTLE.  FOR 
JOY  I  COULD  EMBRACE  THE  EARTH.  I  SHALL  DELIGHT  TO  BE 
BURIED  IN  IT.  AND  THEN  I  THINK  OF  THOSE  AMONG  MEN,  WHO 
WILL  KNOW  THAT  I  LOVE  THEM,  THOUGH  I  TELL  THEM  NOT. 
H.  D.  T. 


CHARLES    E.   GOODSPEED 
BOSTON:    1902 


Copyright,  1902,  by  F.  B.  SANBORN 
Published  November,  1902 


D.  B.  Updike,  The  Merrymount  Press,  Boston 


DEDICATION 

Silent  and  serene, 

The  plastic  soul  emancipates  her  kind. 
She  leaves  the  generations  to  their  fate, 
Uncompromised  by  grief.  She  cannot  weep: 
She  sheds  no  tears  for  us, — our  mother,  Nature! 
She  is  ne^er  rude  nor  vexed,  not  rough  or  careless; 
Out  of  temper  ne'er,  patient  as  sweet,  though  winds 
In  winter  brush  her  leaves  away,  and  time 
To  human  senses  breathes  through  frost. 

My  friend ! 

Learn,  from  the  joy  of  Nature,  thus  to  be 
Not  only  all  resigned  to  thy  worst  fears, 
But,  like  herself,  superior  to  them  all, 
Nor  merely  superficial  in  thy  smiles! 
And  through  the  inmost  fibres  of  thy  heart 
May  goodness  constant  fiow,  and  fix  in  that 
The  ever-lapsing  tides,  that  lesser  depths 
Deprive  of  half  their  salience.  Be,  throughout, 
True  as  the  inmost  life  that  moves  the  world, 
And  in  demeanor  show  a  firm  content, 
Annihilating  change. 

Thus  Henry  lived, 

Considerate  to  his  kind.  His  love  bestowed 
Was  not  a  gift  infractions,  half-way  done; 
But  with  some  mellow  goodness,  like  a  sun, 
He  shone  oVr  mortal  hearts,  and  taught  their  buds 
[v] 


DEDICATION 

To  blossom  early,  thence  ripe  fruit  and  seed. 
Forbearing  too  much  counsel^  yet  with  blows 
By  pleasing  reason  urged,  he  touched  their  thought 
As  with  a  mild  surprise^  and  they  were  good, 
Even  if' they  knew  not  whence  that  motive  came; 
Nor  yet  suspected  that  from  Henry's  heart — 
His  warm,  confiding  heart — the  impulse  flowed. 


These  lines  were  not  originally  addrest  to  Mr.  Thoreau,  nor,  indeed,  describe 
literally  whatever  character.  But  were  meant  for  Mr.  Emerson,  w.  E.  c. 

[   vi] 


"Si  tibi  pulchra  domus,  si  splendida  mensa,  quid  inde? 
Si  species  auri,  argenti  quoque  massa,  quid  inde? 
Si  tibi  sponsa  decens,  si  sit  generosa,  quid  inde? 
Si  tibi  sunt  nati,  si  praedia  magna,  quid  inde? 
Si  fueris  pulcher,  fortis,  dives  ve,  quid  inde? 
Si  doceas  alios  in  quolibet  arte,  quid  inde? 
Si  longus  servorum  inserviat  ordo,  quid  inde? 
Si  faveat  mundus,  si  prospera  cuncta,  quid  inde? 
Si  prior,  aut  abbas,  si  dux,  si  papa,  quid  inde? 
Si  felix  annos  regnes  per  mille,  quid  inde? 
Si  rota  fortunae  se  tollit  ad  astra,  quid  inde? 
Tarn  cito,  tamque  cito  fugiunt  haec  ut  nihil,  inde. 
Sola  manet  virtus :  nos  glorificabimur,  inde. 
Ergo  Deo  pare,  bene  nam  provenit  tibi  inde." 

LAURA  BASSI.  Sonnet  on  the  gate  of  the  Specola  at  Bologna. 

"From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilderness, 
Earth  lifts  its  solemn  voice ;  but  thou  art  fled ; 
Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the  shapes 
Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to  thee 
Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas ! 
Now  thou  art  not.  Art  and  eloquence, 
And  all  the  shows  of  the  world,  are  frail  and  vain 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  light  to  shade ! 
It  is  a  woe  too  deep  for  tears  when  all 
Is  reft  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  spirit, 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it,  leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind  nor  sobs  nor  groans, 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 
Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  things, 

Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were." 

SHELLEY. 

"The  memory,  like  a  cloudless  sky, 

The  conscience,  like  a  sea  at  rest." 

TENNYSON. 

'Esperer  ou  craindre  pour  un  autre  est  la  seule  chose  qui  donne 
a  rhomme  le  sentiment  complet  de  sa  propre  existence." 

EUGENIE  DE  GUERIN. 
[vii] 


'  For  not  a  hidden  path,  that  to  the  shades 
Of  the  beloved  Parnassian  forest  leads, 
Lurked  undiscovered  by  him ;  not  a  rill 
There  issues  from  the  fount  of  Hippocrene, 
But  he  had  traced  it  upward  to  its  source, 
Through  open  glade,  dark  glen,  and  secret  dell, 
Knew  the  gay  wild-flowers  on  its  banks,  and  culled 
Its  med'cinable  herbs ;  yea,  oft  alone, 
Piercing  the  long-neglected  holy  cave, 
The  haunt  obscure  of  old  Philosophy." 


"Such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind,  habitable  woods  provide." 

'My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides, 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail.' 


"Is  this  the  mighty  ocean?— is  this  all?" 

"Then  bless  thy  secret  growth,  nor  catch 

At  noise,  but  thrive  unseen  and  dumb ; 
Keep  clean,  bear  fruit,  earn  life,  and  watch, 
Till  the  white- winged  reapers  come." 


COLERIDGE. 


MILTON. 


KEATS. 


LANDOR. 


VAUGHAN. 


'  No  one  hates  the  sea  and  danger  more  than  I  do ;  but  I  fear 

more  not  to  do  my  duty  to  the  utmost." 

SIR  ROBERT  WILSON. 

"The  joyous  birds  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade, 

Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempted  sweet ; 

Th'  angelical  soft  trembling  voices  made 

To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet, 

With  the  low  murmurs  of  the  water's  fall ; 

The  water's  fall  with  difference  discreet, 

Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. " 


SPENSER. 


iii   J 


INTRODUCTION 

ELLERY  CHANNING'S  biography  of  his  most  intimate  friend, 
Thoreau,  had  a  peculiar  history.  Soon  after  Thoreau's  death 
in  May,  1862,  Channing  began  to  write  his  life,  for  which  he 
had  long  been  making  preparation,  both  consciously  and  un 
consciously.  In  1853,  when  a  plan  was  formed,  which  never 
was  fully  carried  out,  for  collecting  into  a  book  under  Chan- 
ning's  editing  a  series  of  walks  and  talks  about  Concord  and 
its  region,  in  which  Emerson,  Thoreau,  Channing,  and  Alcott 
should  be  the  recorders  and  interlocutors,  Mr.  Channing,  who 
had  then  been  for  ten  years  a  resident  of  Concord,  with  oc 
casional  absences  in  New  York  and  Europe,  had  access  to 
the  journals  of  Thoreau,  and  made  various  copies  therefrom. 
Later,  and  during  Thoreau's  last  illness,  he  copied  from  them 
still  more  specifically;  and  the  books,  now  in  my  possession, 
in  which  these  extracts  were  entered,  were  borrowed  by 
Emerson  in  revising  for  publication  his  funeral  eulogy  of 
Thoreau,  which  now  appears  as  an  introduction  to  the  vol 
ume  called  "Excursions."  Other  portions  were  copied  while 
Channing  was  assisting  Sophia  Thoreau  to  edit  the  "Maine 
Woods'";  so  that  the  manuscript  volume  finally  contained 
many  pages  from  Thoreau's  journals  for  the  last  ten  or  twelve 
years  of  his  life.  In  1863  very  few  of  these  had  been  pub- 

[ix] 


INTRODUCTION 

lished,  although  a  few  appeared  in  Thoreau's  contributions 
to  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  and  in  Emerson's  eulogy.  Had 
the  book  appeared  then,  early  in  1864,  as  Channing  expected, 
it  would  have  been  a  fresh  and  varied  addition  to  what  the 
public  had  of  Thoreau's  original  and  carefully  written  ob 
servations  on  nature  and  man. 

With  all  this  preparation,  Channing  in  1863  composed 
a  hundred  and  thirty-four  large  manuscript  pages  in  a  book 
now  lying  before  me,  his  first  draft  of  "Thoreau,  the  Poet- 
Naturalist";  copied  it  out,  with  omissions  and  additions,  and 
sent  me  the  first  half  of  the  copy  for  publication,  week 
by  week,  in  the  "Boston  Commonwealth"  newspaper,  which 
I  had  begun  to  edit  in  February,  1863,  and  to  which  Miss 
Thoreau  had  contributed  several  of  her  brother's  unprinted 
poems.  I  copyrighted  the  work  in  my  own  name,  as  Mr. 
Channing  desired,  and  began  to  publish  it  early  in  1864. 
After  several  weeks,  I  omitted  the  weekly  chapter  of  Thoreau 
(whose  readers  were  much  fewer  forty  years  ago  than  now), 
in  order  to  give  nay  limited  space  for  literary  matter  to 
other  contributors  for  a  fortnight.  At  this  omission  my 
friend  took  offence,  and  recalled  his  manuscript,  so  that 
the  work  remained  a  fragment  for  nearly  ten  years,  during 
which  time  much  of  the  unprinted  manuscript  of  Thoreau 
found  its  way  into  print,  and  stimulated  the  desire  of  readers 


INTRODUCTION 

to  know  more  of  the  author.  This  suggested  to  me  and  to 
Channing  that  he  might  issue  his  work  in  a  volume,  as 
he  had  "The  Wanderer"  (1871),  which  proved  in  some  de 
gree  popular.  I  made  an  arrangement  with  the  late  Thomas 
Niles,  then  the  head  of  the  house  of  Roberts  Brothers,  by 
which  an  edition  of  fifteen  hundred  copies  of  the  biography 
should  be  published  in  the  autumn  of  1873;  and  the  volume 
known  to  libraries  and  collectors  as  "Thoreau,the  Poet-Natu 
ralist"  made  its  appearance,  and  sold  moderately  well.  Indeed, 
it  was  the  most  popular  of  all  Channing^s  nine  volumes,  pub 
lished  by  him  at  intervals  from  1843  to  1886.  It  escaped 
the  Boston  fires  which  had  destroyed  the  unsold  copies  of 
"The  Wanderer,"  and  in  twenty  years  was  so  completely 
sold  out  that  it  was  with  difficulty  the  publishers  procured 
for  me  a  single  copy  for  presentation  to  our  Plymouth  friend, 
Marston  Watson  of  Hillside,  to  whom  Channing  had  omitted 
to  send  it,  or  who  may  have  given  away  his  copy.  A  copy 
now  and  then  coming  to  market  at  present  sells  for  five 
dollars. 

But  the  volume  of  1873  (now  out  of  print  and  its  copy 
right  expired)  was  very  different  from  that  composed  in 
1863.  With  the  perversity  of  genius  Channing  had  gone  over 
his  first  draft,  omitting  much,  making  portions  of  the  rest 
obscure  and  enigmatical,  but  enriching  it  with  the  treasures 

[xi] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  his  recondite  learning  in  mottoes,  allusions,  and  number 
less  citations, — the  whole  without  much  method,  or  with  a 
method  of  his  own,  not  easily  followed  by  the  reader,  who 
had  not  the  guide-board  of  an  index  to  help  him  out.  Withal, 
Channing  had  inserted  here  and  there  matchless  passages  of 
description,  his  own  or  Thoreau's,  which  made  the  book  then, 
and  ever  since,  a  mine  of  citations  for  every  biographer  of 
the  poet-naturalist  who  succeeded  him, — beginning  with  the 
Scotch  litterateur  who  called  himself  "H.  A.  Page,"  and 
whose  little  volume  was  soon  reprinted  in  Boston  by  Tho- 
reau's  publishers. 

In  my  new  edition,  based  upon  a  copy  with  the  author's 
revision  and  notes,  I  have  inserted  here  and  there  passages 
of  no  great  length  which  I  find  in  the  original  sketch,  and 
which  make  the  meaning  plainer  and  the  story  more  con 
secutive.  At  the  end  of  this  volume  will  be  found  some  addi 
tions  to  the  "Memorial  Poems"  which  evidently  belong  there. 

But  a  still  more  singular  peculiarity  marked  the  volume  of 
1873.  As  its  printing  went  on,  the  publisher  (Mr.  Niles)  con 
sulted  me  in  regard  to  it,  finding  Mr.  Channing  not  always 
responsive  to  his  suggestions;  and  finally  said  to  me,  for  the 
author's  information,  that  the  volume  was  about  fifty  pages 
smaller  than  he  had  expected  to  make  it.  Could  not  Mr. 
Channing,  then,  who  seemed  to  have  much  material  at  his 

[xii] 


INTRODUCTION 

disposal,  add  the  requisite  pages  to  the  work?  Certainly,  was 
the  reply;  and  how  was  it  done?  From  the  long-deferred 
manuscript  of  1853,  "Country  Walking"  by  name,  containing 
long  passages  from  the  journals  of  Emerson  and  Thoreau, 
with  bits  of  actual  conversation;  sketches  arid  snatches  of 
character  by  Channing  himself,  and  here  and  there  a  poem 
or  fragment  by  Channing  or  Emerson, — from  this  medley  of 
records,  meant  for  another  purpose,  Channing  selected  the 
required  number  of  pages, — cut  the  original  book  open  in 
the  midst,  and  inserted  the  new-old  matter.  It  makes  the 
bulk  of  sixty-seven  pages  (old  edition),  from  the  hundred  and 
twentieth  to  the  hundred  and  eighty-seventh,  inclusive,  and 
is  so  printed  that  the  authors  themselves  could  hardly  pick 
out  their  own  share  in  this  olio.  In  the  revision  Channing 
has  indicated  with  some  clearness  (to  my  eyes)  who  is  the 
spokesman  in  each  colloquy,  and  I  have  prefixed  or  affixed 
the  names  of  the  interlocutors  in  most  cases.  This  matter, 
though  improperly  given  to  the  world  thirty  years  ago,  and 
occasioning  Mr.  Emerson,  and  possibly  Miss  Thoreau,  some 
vexation,  has  now  been  public  property  so  long  that  I  reprint 
it  without  hesitation,  but  sometimes  changing  its  order.  I 
have  also  inserted  occasionally  passages  out  of  Thoreau's 
journals  or  papers  which  have  not  yet  been  published,  per 
haps,  but  the  printing  of  which  will  only  add  to  the  value 

[  xiii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  that  great  store  of  imprinted  manuscript  which  Mr.  E.  H. 
Russell  of  Worcester  now  holds,  and  is  preparing  to  pub 
lish  in  a  more  methodical  form  than  Thoreau's  good  friend 
Blake  did. 

I  have  felt  a  strong  personal  interest  in  this  biography, 
not  only  from  my  long  friendship  both  with  Thoreau  and 
Channing,  but  because  I  have  been  so  conversant,  for  nearly 
forty  years,  with  the  contents  of  the  volume,  and  with  the 
manuscripts  out  of  which  they  were  condensed.  And  I  have 
prefixed  to  this  edition  a  portrait,  not  of  Thoreau,  but  Ellery 
Channing  himself,  taken  as  a  photograph  by  that  excellent 
artist,  Mr.  Henry  Smith  of  the  Studio  Building,  Boston,  not 
long  after  the  publication  of  the  first  edition  in  1873.  At  the 
time,  three  sittings  were  given  by  Mr.  Channing,  all  in  one 
day,  but  presenting  different  views  of  the  sitter.  That  chosen 
for  this  book  is  not  his  most  poetic  aspect, — which  is  reserved 
for  the  volume  of  Channing's  "Poems  of  Sixty-five  Years," 
now  in  press  at  Philadelphia, — but  rather  the  shrewd,  hu 
morous  face,  with  its  ancestral  resemblances  and  reminders 
of  kinship,  which  seems  most  fitting  for  this  prose  volume. 
Those  who  remember  Mr.  Channing^s  cousin,  the  late  John 
Murray  Forbes,  at  the  age  (about  fifty-six)  when  this  por 
trait  was  made,  will  be  struck,  as  I  was,  with  a  certain  resem 
blance, — as  also  to  the  interesting  Perkins  family  of  Boston, 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

from  whom  both  Mr.  Forbes  and  Ellery  Channing  derived 
many  traits.  Intellectually,  the  cousinship  of  John  Forbes  and 
Ellery  Channing  showed  itself  in  that  surprising  quickness 
and  perspicacity  which,  in  the  elder,  the  Merchant,  was  di 
rected  towards  the  secrets  of  Fortune  and  the  management 
of  men, — and  in  the  younger,  the  Poet,  towards  every  as 
pect  of  Man  and  of  Nature,  imaginatively  transcribed  in  that 
volume  which  Shakespeare  studied,  saying, 

(<  In  Nature's  infinite  book  of  secrecy 
A  little  I  can  read." 

Channing  read  much  therein:  had  his  gift  of  expression 
been  coequal  with  his  extraordinary  insight,  none  would  ever 
think  of  denying  to  him  the  title  which  he  modestly  claimed 
for  himself, — the  high  name  of  Poet.  He  had,  in  fact,  more 
completely  than  any  man  since  Keats,  the  traditional  poetical 
temperament,  intuitive,  passionate,  capricious,  with  by  turns 
the  most  generous  and  the  most  exacting  spirit.  One  other 
trait  he  had,  never  seen  by  me  in  such  force  in  any  other, — 
the  power  to  see  and  the  impulse  to  state  all  sides  of  any 
matter  which  presented  itself  to  his  alert  and  discriminating 
intellect.  He  would  utter  an  opinion,  in  itself  pertinent,  but 
partial;  in  a  moment,  if  not  disputed,  he  would  bring  forth 
the  complementary  opinion,  and  so  go  round  his  subject  until 
its  qualities  had  been  exhausted;  and  this  not  with  the  for- 

[xv] 


INTRODUCTION 

mality  of  syllogisms  or  enthymemes,  but  as  the  poet's  eye, 
in  Shakespeare's  phrase, 

"Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven." 

The  "Memorial  Verses"  at  the  end  of  the  biography  are  here 
printed  with  some  alterations  and  additions.  Their  connec 
tion  with  his  friend  Thoreau  is  sometimes  slight,  but  the 
connection  existed  in  his  enduring  memory  and  his  tender 
heart,  and  among  them  are  some  of  his  best  lines.  The  Cape 
poems,  commemorative  in  part  of  his  walks  along  the  sands 
with  Thoreau,  and  in  part  of  earlier  joys  and  sorrows  at 
Truro,  were,  I  believe,  regarded  by  Emerson  as  the  best  of 
his  middle-age  verses,  except  the  Ode  at  the  consecration 
of  the  Cemetery,  in  1855,  where  his  ashes  now  repose.  The 
"Still  River"  deals  with  a  walk  from  Ayer  to  Lancaster,  pass 
ing  by  a  village  or  two,  and  the  lonely  farmhouse  of  "Fruit- 
lands,"  where  Alcott  and  his  friends  in  1843-44  played  out 
their  idyll  of  an  ascetic  community.  I  have  added  to  this 
poem,  which  was  written  before  1853,  a  concluding  passage 
describing  the  winter  landscape  in  the  valley  of  the  Nashua, 
into  which,  not  far  from  Fruitlands,  the  stream  called  Still 
River  quietly  flows. 

F.  B.  SANBORN. 

Concord,  April  15,  1902. 


xv 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    EARLY    LIFE  1 

II.    MANNERS  27 

III.    READING  47 

IV.    NATURE  63 

V.    LITERARY    THEMES  81 

VI.    SPRING    AND    AUTUMN  91 

VII.    PHILOSOPHY  109 

VIII.    WALKS    AND    TALKS  131 

« 

IX.    WALKS    AND    TALKS    CONTINUED  l6l 

X.    THE    LATTER    YEAR  179 

XI.    MULTUM    IN    PARVO  197 

XII.    HIS    WRITINGS  227 

XIII.    PERSONALITIES  257 

XIV.    FIELD    SPORTS  279 

XV.    CHARACTERS  303 

XVI.    MORAL  325 

MEMORIAL    VERSES 

I.    TO    HENRY  347 

II.    WHITE    POND  347 

[  xvii  ] 


CONTENTS 

MEMORIAL    VERSES    (CONTINUED)  PAGE 

III.    A    LAMENT  351 

IV.    MORRICE    LAKE  352 

V.    TEARS    IN    SPRING  354 

VI.    THE    MILL    BROOK  355 

VII.    STILLRIVER  358 

VIII.    TRURO  363 

IX.    BAKER    FARM  370 

X.    FLIGHT    OF   GEESE  373 

INDEX  379 


["  xviii   ] 


PREFACE 

GRA  Y says  that  "Hermes"  Harris  is  what  he  "calls  the  shallow- 
profound^  Dr.  Johnson  says  that  in  the  dedication  to  Harrises 
"Hermes"  of  fourteen  lines,  there  are  six  grammatical  faults. 
This  is  as  much  as  we  could  expect  in  an  English  pedant  whose 
work  treats  of  grammar:  we  trust  our  prologue  will  prove 
more  drop-ripe,  even  if  the  whole  prove  dull, — dull  as  the  last 
new  comedy. 

In  a  biographic  thesis  there  can  hardly  occur  very  much  to 
amuse,  \f  of  one  who  was  reflective  and  not  passionate,  and 
who  might  have  entered  like  Anthony  Wood  in  his  journal, 
"This  day  old  Joan  began  to  make  my  bed" — an  entry  not 
fine  enough  for  Walpole.  At  the  same  time  the  account  of  a 
writer's  stock  in  trade  may  be  set  off'  like  the  catalogues  of 
George  Robins,  auctioneer,  with  illustrations  even  in  Latin  or, 
as  Marlowe  says — 

"The  learned  Greek,  rich  in  fit  epithets, 
Blest  in  the  lovely  marriage  of  pure  words." 

Byron's  bath  at  Newstead  Abbey  is  described  as  a  dark  and 
cellar-like  hole.  The  halos  about  the  brows  of  authors  tarnish 
with  time.  Iteration,  too,  must  be  respected, — that  law  of 
Nature.  Authors  carry  their  robes  of  state  not  on  their  backs, 
but,  like  the  Indians  seen  by  Wafer,  in  a  basket  behind  them, 
— "the  times'"  epitome."  But  as  the  cheerful  host  says: — 

xix 


PREFACE 

(C  I  give  tliee  all,  I  can  no  more, 
If  poor  the  offering  be," 

the  best  scraps  in  the  larder,  like  Pip's  pork-pie. 

A  literary  life  may  acquire  value  by  contrast.  Goldsmith  in 
the  "  Good-Natured  Man"  says,  "Never  mind  the  world,  my 
dear:  you  were  never  in  a  pleasant er  place  in  your  life.  Tender 
ness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch"  Like  the  Lady  Brilliana  Harley, 
authors  can  say  of  their  servants:  "/  take  it  as  a  speciall 
providence  of  God,  that  I  have  so  froward  a  made  aboute  me 
as  Mary  is,  sence  I  love  peace  and  quietnes  so  well:  she  has 
bene  extremely  froward  since  I  have  bine  ill;  I  did  not  think 
that  any  would  have  bine  so  colericke.  I  would  I  could  put  a 
little  water  in  her  wine" 

Claude  Lorraine  used  to  say,  "/  sell  you  my  landscapes: 
the  figures  I  give  away."  So  there  are  patch-work  quilts  made 
by  the  saints  where  bits  of  fine  silk  are  sewed  on  pieces  of  waste 
paper, — that  seems,  madam,  not  that  is.  But  recall  the  trope 
that  "very  near  to  admiration  is  the  wish  to  admire"  and 
permit  the  excellence  of  the  subject  to  defray  in  a  measure  the 
meanness  of  the  treatment: — 

<c  Stars  now  vanish  without  number, 
Sleepy  planets  set  and  slumber."  l 


Vaughan. 

[XX] 


EARLY     LIFE 


"Wit  is  the  Soul's  powder." 

DAVENANT. 


CHAPTER    I 

EARLY      LIFE 

THE  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  in  the  town  of  Concord, 
Massachusetts,  on  the  twelfth  day  of  July,  1817.  The  old- 
fashioned  house  on  the  Virginia  road,  its  roof  nearly  reaching 
to  the  ground  in  the  rear,  remains  as  it  was1  when  Henry 
David  Thoreau  first  saw  the  light  in  the  easternmost  of  its 
upper  chambers.  It  was  the  residence  of  his  grandmother, 
and  a  perfect  piece  of  our  New  England  style  of  building,  with 
its  gray,  unpainted  boards,  its  grassy,  unfenced  door-yard. 
The  house  is  somewhat  isolate  and  remote  from  thorough 
fares  ;  the  Virginia  road,  an  old-fashioned,  winding,  at-length- 
deserted  pathway,  the  more  smiling  for  its  forked  orchards, 
tumbling  walls,  and  mossy  banks.  About  the  house  are  pleas 
ant,  sunny  meadows,  deep  with  their  beds  of  peat,  so  cheer 
ing  with  its  homely,  hearth-like  fragrance;  and  in  front  runs 
a  constant  stream  through  the  centre  of  that  great  tract 
sometimes  called  " Bedford  levels," — this  brook,  a  source  of 
the  Shawsheen  River.  It  was  lovely  he  should  draw  his  first 
breath  in  a  pure  country  air,  out  of  crowded  towns,  amid 
the  pleasant  russet  fields.  His  parents  were  active,  vivacious 
people;  his  grandfather  by  the  father's  side  coming  from  the 
Isle  of  Jersey,  a  Frenchman  and  Churchman  at  home,  who 
married  in  Boston  a  Scotch  woman  called  Jeanie  Burns.  On 
his  mother's  side  the  descent  is  from  the  well-known  Jones 
1  No  longer  so  in  1902.  r.  B.  s. 

[3] 


THOREAU 

family  of  Weston,  Massachusetts,  and  from  Rev.  Asa  Dunbar, 
a  graduate  of  Harvard  College,  who  preached  in  Salem,  and 
at  length  settled  in  Keene,  New  Hampshire.  As  variable  an 
ancestry  as  can  well  be  afforded,  with  marked  family  char 
acters  on  both  sides. 

About  a  year  and  a  half  from  Henry's  birth,  the  family 
removed  to  the  town  of  Chelmsford,  thence  to  Boston,  com 
ing  back  however  to  Concord,  when  he  was  of  a  very  tender 
age.  His  earliest  memory  almost  of  the  town  was  a  ride  by 
Walden  Pond  with  his  grandmother,  when  he  thought  that 
he  should  be  glad  to  live  there.  Henry  retained  a  peculiar 
pronunciation  of  the  letter  r,  with  a  decided  French  accent. 
He  says,  "September  is  the  first  month  with  a  burr  in  it"; 
and  his  speech  always  had  an  emphasis,  a  burr  in  it.  His 
great-grandmother's  name  was  Marie  le  Galais;  and  his  grand 
father,  John  Thoreau,  was  baptized  April  28,  1754,  and  took 
the  Anglican  sacrament  in  the  parish  of  St.  Helier  (Isle  of 
Jersey),  in  May,  1773.  Thus  near  to  old  France  and  the 
Church  was  our  Yankee  boy. 

As  Henry  is  associated  with  Concord  especially,  I  pass  over 
several  of  his  years  after  he  left  the  Virginia  road,  for  they 
were  spent  in  Chelmsford  and  Boston.  When  he  was  fourteen 
months  old,  his  family  removed  to  Chelmsford,  where  they 
were  settled  for  two  years,  and  thence  to  Boston  (his  grand 
father's  town),  where  they  lived  three  years  before  return 
ing  to  Concord.  At  Chelmsford  he  was  tossed  by  a  cow,  and 
again,  by  getting  at  an  axe  without  advice,  he  cut  off  a  good 
part  of  one  of  his  toes;  and  once  he  fell  from  a  stair.  After 

[4] 


EARLY     LIFE 

this  last  achievement,  as  after  some  others,  he  had  a  singular 
suspension  of  breath,  with  a  purple  hue  in  his  face, — owing, 
I  think,  to  his  slow  circulation  (shown  in  his  slow  pulse 
through  life)  and  hence  the  difficulty  of  recovering  his  breath. 
Perhaps  a  more  active  flow  of  blood  might  have  afforded 
an  escape  from  other  and  later  troubles.  I  have  heard  many 
stories  related  by  his  mother  about  these  early  years;  she 
enjoyed  not  only  the  usual  feminine  quantity  of  speech,  but 
thereto  added  the  lavishness  of  age.  Would  they  had  been 
better  told,  or  better  remembered!  for  my  memory  is  as 
poor  as  was  her  talk  perennial.  He  was  always  a  thoughtful, 
serious  boy,  in  advance  of  his  years, — wishing  to  have  and  do 
things  his  own  way,  and  ever  fond  of  wood  and  field;  honest, 
pure,  and  good;  a  treasure  to  his  parents,  and  a  fine  example 
for  less  happily  constituted  younglings  to  follow.  Thus  Mr. 
Samuel  Hoar  gave  him  the  title  of  "the  judge"  from  his  grav 
ity;  and  the  boys  at  the  town  school  used  to  assemble  about 
him  as  he  sat  on  the  fence,  to  hear  his  account  of  things. 

He  drove  his  cow  to  pasture  in  Concord,  with  bare  feet, 
like  other  village  boys;  and  I  recall  that  he  remembered  a 
certain  field,  a  good  distance  from  the  village,  through  which 
we  were  walking,  as  that  to  which  he  drove  his  cow.  He  was 
reticent  of  biographical  recollections,  and  had  the  habit  not 
to  dwell  on  the  past.  But  he  loved,  I  doubt  not,  to  linger 
over  the  old  familiar  things  of  boyhood;  and  he  has  occa 
sionally  let  fall  some  memory  of  the  "Milldam"  when  he  was 
a  boy,  and  of  the  pond  behind  it,  now  a  meadow;  and  of 
the  many  houses  in  which  he  lived, — for  his  was  a  moving 

[5] 


THOREAU 

family, — I  have  heard  him  rarely  speak.  Of  these  mansions 
(four  of  which  he  passed  in  his  daily  walk  to  the  village  post- 
office)  I  never  heard  him  more  than  say,  "I  used  to  live  in 
that  house,"  or  "There  it  was  that  so-and-so  took  place,"- 
thus  refreshing  his  memory  by  the  existing  locality.  He  was 
known  among  the  lads  of  his  age  as  one  who  did  not  fear 
mud  or  water,  nor  paused  to  lift  his  followers  over  the  ditch. 
So  in  his  later  journeys,  if  his  companion  was  footsore  and 
loitered,  he  steadily  pursued  the  road,  making  his  strength 
self-serviceable. 

"  Who  sturdily  could  gang, 
Who  cared  neither  for  wind  nor  wet, 
In  lands  where'er  he  past." 

That  wildness  that  in  him  nothing  could  subdue  still  lay 
beneath  his  culture.  Once  when  a  follower  was  done  up  with 
headache  and  incapable  of  motion,  hoping  his  associate  would 
comfort  him  and  perhaps  afford  him  a  sip  of  tea,  he  said, 
"There  are  people  who  are  sick  in  that  way  every  morning, 
and  go  about  their  affairs,'"  and  then  marched  off  about  his. 
In  such  limits,  so  inevitable,  was  he  compacted. 

Thoreau  was  not  of  those  who  linger  on  the  past:  he  had 
little  to  say  and  less  to  think  of  the  houses  or  thoughts  in 
which  he  had  lived.  They  were,  indeed,  many  mansions.  He 
was  entered  of  Harvard  College  in  the  year  1833,  and  was  a 
righteous  and  respectable  student,  having  done  a  bold  read 
ing  in  English  poetry,  mastering  Chalmers's  collection,  even 
to  some  portions  or  the  whole  of  Davenant's  "Gondibert." 
He  made  no  college  acquaintance  which  served  him  practi- 

[6] 


EARLY     LIFE 

cally  in  after  life,  and  partially  escaped  "his  class,"  admiring 
the  memory  of  the  class  secretary.  No  doubt,  the  important 
event  to  him  in  early  manhood  was  his  journey  to  the  White 
Mountains  with  his  only  brother  John,  who  was  the  elder, 
and  to  whom  he  was  greatly  attached.  With  this  brother  he 
kept  the  Academy  in  Concord  for  a  year  or  two  directly 
after  leaving  college.  This  piece  of  travel  by  boat  and  afoot 
was  one  of  the  excursions  which  furnish  dates  to  his  life.  The 
next  important  business  outwardly  was  building  for  himself 
a  small  house  close  by  the  shore  of  Walden  Pond  in  Concord, 
the  result  of  economic  forethought.  In  the  year  before  he 
built  for  himself  this  only  true  house  of  his,  at  Walden,  he 
assisted  his  father  in  building  a  house  in  the  western  part 
of  Concord  village,  called  "Texas."  To  this  spot  he  was  much 
attached,  for  it  commanded  an  excellent  view,  and  was  re 
tired;  and  there  he  planted  an  orchard.  His  own  house  is 
rather  minutely  described  in  his  "Walden."  It  was  just  large 
enough  for  one,  like  the  plate  of  boiled  apple  pudding  he 
used  to  order  of  the  restaurateur,  and  which,  he  said,  consti 
tuted  his  invariable  dinner  in  a  jaunt  to  the  city.  Two  was 
one  too  much  in  his  house.  It  was  a  larger  coat  and  hat, — 
a  sentry-box  on  the  shore,  in  the  wood  of  Walden,  ready 
to  walk  into  in  rain  or  snow  or  cold.  As  for  its  being  in  the 
ordinary  meaning  a  house,  it  was  so  superior  to  the  common 
domestic  contrivances  that  I  do  not  associate  it  with  them. 
By  standing  on  a  chair  you  could  reach  into  the  garret,  and 
a  corn  broom  fathomed  the  depth  of  the  cellar.  It  had  no 
lock  to  the  door,  no  curtain  to  the  window,  and  belonged 

[7] 


THOREAU 

to  nature  nearly  as  much  as  to  man.  It  was  a  durable  gar 
ment,  an  overcoat,  he  had  contrived  and  left  by  Walden, 
convenient  for  shelter,  sleep,  or  meditation.  His  business 
taught  him  expedients  to  husband  time:  in  our  victimizing 
climate  he  was  fitted  for  storms  or  bad  walking;  his  coat 
must  contain  special  convenience  for  a  walker,  with  a  note 
book  and  spy-glass, — a  soldier  in  his  outfits.  For  shoddy  he 
had  an  aversion:  a  pattern  of  solid  Vermont  gray  gave  him 
genuine  satisfaction,  and  he  could  think  of  corduroy.  His  life 
was  of  one  fabric.  He  spared  the  outfitters  no  trouble;  he 
wished  the  material  cut  to  suit  him,  as  he  was  to  wear  it, 
not  worshipping  "the  fashion"  in  cloth  or  opinion.  He  bought 
but  few  things,  and  "those  not  till  long  after  he  began  to 
want  them,'"  so  that  when  he  did  get  them  he  was  prepared 
to  make  a  perfect  use  of  them  and  extract  their  whole  sweet. 
For  if  he  was  a  mystic  or  transcendentalist,  he  was  also  a 
natural  philosopher  to  boot.  He  did  not  live  to  health  or 
exercise  or  dissipation,  but  work;  his  diet  spare,  his  vigor 
supreme,  his  toil  incessant.  Not  one  man  in  a  million  loses 
so  few  of  the  hours  of  life;  and  he  found  soon  what  were 
"the  best  things  in  his  composition,  and  then  shaped  the 
rest  to  fit  them.  The  former  were  the  midrib  and  veins  of 
the  leaf."  Few  were  better  fitted.  He  had  an  unusual  degree 
of  mechanic  skill,  and  the  hand  that  wrote  "Walden"1  and 
"The  Week"  could  build  a  boat  or  a  house. 

1  In  1883  "Walden"  had  gone  through  twenty  editions,  "The  Maine 
Woods,"  sixteen, — the  former,  no  doubt,  by  sales  at  the  Fitchburg  Rail 
road  shanties  on  their  picnic  grounds ;  the  latter  by  the  demand  of  travel- 

[8] 


EARLY     LIFE 

Sometimes  he  picked  a  scanty  drift-wood  from  his  native 
stream,  and  made  good  book-cases,  chests,  and  cabinets  for 
his  study.  I  have  seen  the  friendly  "wreck"  drying  by  his 
little  air-tight  stove  for  those  homely  purposes.  He  bound 
his  own  books,  and  measured  the  farmers'*  fields  in  his  region 
by  chain  or  compass.  In  more  than  one  the  bounds  were 
detected  by  the  surveyor,  who  was  fond  of  metes  and  bounds 
in  morals  and  deeds.  Thus  he  came  to  see  the  inside  of  almost 
every  farmer's  house  and  head,  his  "pot  of  beans'"  and  mug 
of  hard  cider.  Never  in  too  much  hurry  for  a  dish  of  gossip, 
he  could  "sit  out  the  oldest  frequenter  of  the  bar-room," 
as  he  believed,  and  was  alive  from  top  to  toe  with  curiosity, 
—a  process,  it  is  true,  not  latent  in  our  people.  But  if  he 
learned,  so  he  taught ;  and  says  he  "  could  take  one  or  twenty 
into  partnership,  gladly  share  his  gains."  On  his  return  from 
a  journey,  he  not  only  emptied  his  pack  of  flowers,  shells, 
seeds,  and  other  treasures,  but  liberally  contributed  every 
fine  or  pleasant  or  desirable  experience  to  those  who  needed, 
as  the  milkweed  distributes  its  lustrous,  silken  seeds. 

Thus,  on  his  return  from  one  of  his  Maine  journeys,  he 
told  the  story  at  great  length  (though  it  was  already  written 
in  his  note-book)  with  the  important  details,  not  only  to  his 
family,  but  to  his  friends,  with  the  utmost  alacrity  and  plea 
sure, — yet  as  if  he  were  discharging  a  sacred  duty, — then 

lers  in  the  Maine  woods,  to  Katadn,  etc. ;  a  vast  many  of  these  "camping- 
out"  excursions  being  now  made.  All  his  other  books  in  1883  remained 
in  the  first  edition,  except  "The  Week,"  which  was  entirely  out  of  print. 
I  should  have  supposed  the  "Cape  Cod"  would  have  been  as  valuable, 
w.  E.  c. 

[9] 


THOREAU 

wrote  it  out  carefully  in  his  Journal,  and  next  as  carefully 
corrected  it  for  its  issue  to  the  public.  This  is  indeed  a  rare 
talent.  Most  of  us,  if  we  have  experiences,  do  not  know 
how  to  describe  them;  or  if  we  do,  do  not  interest  ourselves 
enough  in  them  to  give  them  forth  for  the  benefit  of  others. 
He  did  this, — and  so  well  and  so  universally,  that  it  must 
be  conceded  to  him  as  a  special  felicity.  Things  made  a  deep 
and  ineffaceable  impression  on  his  mind.  He  had  no  trace  of 
that  want  of  memory  which  besets  some  amiable  beings.  Yet 
as  I  have  said,  he  was  reticent;  so  he  was,  remarkably  in 
certain  ways.  I  can  mention  that  he  never  or  rarely  spoke 
to  me  of  the  Indians;  never  alluded  to  his  collections  on  the 
subject;  and,  in  all  the  years  (about  twenty)  that  I  knew 
him  intimately,  maintained  a  profound  silence  on  that  (to 
him)  altogether  engrossing  topic.  But  there  was  little  bound 
to  his  usual  communicativeness. 

Connected  with  this  was  his  skill  in  asking  questions,— 
a  natural  talent,  long  cultivated.  Sometimes,  where  the  mat 
ter  was  important,  he  carried  with  him  a  string  of  leading 
questions,  carefully  written,  which  he  had  the  ability  to  get 
as  skilfully  answered, — though,  if  there  was  a  theory  to 
maintain,  with  a  possible  overlapping  to  his  side  of  the  argu 
ment.  Ever  on  the  search  for  knowledge,  he  lived  to  get  in 
formation;  and  as  I  am  so  far  like  Alfieri  that  I  have  almost 
no  curiosity,  I  once  said  to  him  how  surprised  I  was  at 
the  persistence  of  this  trait  in  him.  "What  else  is  there  in 
life?"  was  his  reply.  He  did  not  end,  in  this  search,  with  the 
farmers,  nor  the  broadcloth  world;  he  knew  another  class  of 

[10] 


EARLY     LIFE 

men,  who  hang  on  the  outskirts  of  society, —  those  who  love 
"grog1'  and  never  to  be  seen  abroad  without  a  fish-pole  or  a 
gun  in  their  hands;  with  elfish  locks,  and  of  a  community 
with  nature  not  to  be  surpassed.  They  lived  more  out  of 
doors  than  he  did,  and  faced  more  mud  and  water  without 
flinching, — sitting  all  day  in  the  puddles,  like  frogs,  with 
a  line  in  the  river,  catching  pouts,  or  wading  mid-leg  in 
marshes,  to  shoot  woodcock.  One  of  these  men,  who  called 
cherry -birds  "port-royals,"  he  long  frequented,  though  looked 
on  in  the  town  as  by  no  means  sacred;  who,  having  a  preju 
dice  for  beer,  at  times  transcended  propriety.  "Surely,"  said 
Thoreau  of  him,  "Goodwin  is  tenacious  of  life, — hard  to 
scale."  I  never  knew  him  to  go  by  this  class  without  the  due 
conversation;  but  I  observed  that  he  had  no  tolerance  for 
"loafers,"  bar-room  idlers,  and  men  who  "have  nothing  to 
do."  The  fishermen  and  hunters  he  knew  and  enjoyed  were 
experienced  in  birds  and  beasts  and  fishes,  and  from  them  he 
loved  to  draw  their  facts.  They  had  a  sort  of  Indian  or  gypsy 
life,  and  he  loved  to  get  this  life  even  at  second  hand.  He 
had  sufficient  innocence  for  both  sides  in  these  interviews. 

He  was  a  natural  Stoic,  not  taught  from  Epictetus  nor 
the  trail  of  Indians.  Not  only  made  he  no  complaint,  but  in 
him  was  no  background  of  complaint,  as  in  some,  where  a 
lifelong  tragedy  dances  in  polished  fetters.  He  enjoyed  what 
sadness  he  could  find.  He  would  be  as  melancholy  as  he  could 
and  rejoice  with  fate.  "Who  knows  but  he  is  dead  already?" 
He  voyaged  about  his  river  in  December,  the  drops  freezing 
on  the  oar,  with  a  cheering  song;  pleased  with  the  silvery 


THOREAU 

chime  of  icicles  against  the  stems  of  the  button -bushes,  toys 
of  "immortal  water,  alive  even  to  the  superficies."  The  blaze 
of  July  and  the  zero  of  January  came  to  him  as  wholesome 
experiences, — the  gifts  of  Nature,  as  he  deemed  them.  He 
desired  to  improve  every  opportunity,  to  find  a  good  in  each 
moment,  not  choosing  alone  the  blissful.  He  said  that  he 
could  not  always  eat  his  pound  cake;  while  corn  meal  lasted 
he  had  resource  against  hunger,  nor  did  he  expect  or  wish 
for  luxuries,  and  would  have  been  glad  of  that  Indian  deli 
cacy,  acorn  oil.  "It  was  from  out  the  shadow  of  his  toil  he 
looked  into  the  light/1 

He  was  one  of  those  who  keep  so  much  of  the  boy  in  them 
that  he  could  never  pass  a  berry  without  picking  it.  For 
huckleberries,  wild  strawberries,  chestnuts,  acorns,  and  wild 
apples  he  had  a  snatch  of  veneration  almost  superstitious.  I 
being  gifted  with  a  lesser  degree  of  this  edible  religion,  fre 
quently  had  to  leave  him  in  the  rear,  picking  his  berry,  while 
I  sat  looking  at  the  landscape,  or  admiring  my  berry-loving 
lad;  nor  was  I  less  pleased  to  see  him  sometimes  cutting  off 
a  square  of  birch-bark,  out  of  which,  in  five  minutes,  he 
would  construct  a  safe  and  handsome  basket  for  his  prize. 
The  same  simplicity  and  mechanical  skill  has  often  saved  us 
from  a  severe  drenching  in  those  sudden  thunder-storms  so 
common  to  this  climate.  With  his  trusty  knife  (of  which  he 
always  carried  two, — one  specially,  with  a  short,  strong, 
stubbed  blade),  before  the  shower  could  overhaul  us,  and  in  a 
very  few  minutes,  he  would  make  a  very  good  shelter.  Tak 
ing  the  lower  limbs  of  an  oak  for  his  rafters,  and  instantly 

[12.] 


EARLY    LIFE 

casting  on  a  supply  of  long  birches,  with  their  butt-ends  over 
the  oak-boughs  for  cross-pieces,  —  over  these  must  be  thatched 
all  the  bushes  and  branches  contiguous,  thus  keeping  us 
absolutely  dry  in  a  deluge.  He  thought  it  could  also  be  done 
by  simply  cutting  a  big  strip  of  bark,  with  a  hole  for  the 
"noddle." 

This  mechanical  skill  was  early  developed, — so  much  so 
that  it  was  even  thought  to  have  had  him  bound  as  an  ap 
prentice  to  a  cabinet-maker.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  built 
a  boat  for  excursions  on  the  river,  and  called  it  "The  Rover." 
In  his  trip  up  the  Merrimac  (celebrated  in  "The  Week")  the 
boat  was  built  by  himself  and  his  brother  John.  This  craft 
afterwards  was  used  several  years  by  Mr.  Hawthorne,  the 
author,  and  at  last  descended  to  me;  thus  showing  that  it 
had  many  salient  points.  At  a  later  period  sand-paper  and 
pencils  were  his  productions;  at  times  he  built  fences,  did 
whitewashing  and  papering,  and  besides  building  a  house 
for  himself,  finished  rooms  in  a  barn  for  another.  In  land- 
surveying,  which  was  also  his  special  business,  he  availed 
himself  of  this  "tool-using"  talent,  which  Sartor  Resartus 
celebrates.  Not  having  the  instrument  he  needed,  costly  and 
difficult  for  him  to  procure,  he  made  it, — a  rare  thing  for 
measure,  and  equal  to  the  best  that  came  from  the  shops. 
The  story  of  his  wood-measure  he  has  told  himself;  on  offer 
ing  which  at  the  city  hay-scales  in  Haymarket  Square,  Bos 
ton,  it  was  rejected  on  the  score  that  it  was  too  perfect  for 
the  interests  of  the  seller  of  wood. 

At  times,  as  he  floated  on  the  Concord,  he  secured  the 
[13] 


THOREAU 

little  loose  lumber  he  could  find,  sometimes  brought  down 
by  the  spring  freshets.  Needing  some  bookshelves  (especially 
after  the  receipt  in  1855,  from  Thomas  Cholmondeley,  of  his 
rich  Indian  present  of  books),  he  contrived  substantial  and 
elegant  cases  for  his  books  from  some  of  this  wood,  so  long 
the  perch  of  turtles  and  the  dining-table  of  clam-loving 
muskrats.  Very  neatly  framed  and  varnished,  with  steel  en 
gravings  adorning  the  ends,  no  better  were  possibly  to  be 
had  of  our  village  Vitruvius.  A  further  need  being  that  of  a 
chest  which  should  contain  his  manuscripts,  become  with  years 
so  numerous  and  valuable,  he  constructs  one  from  this  same 
driftwood, — an  excellent  chest.  Again,  not  finding  the  un 
ruled  paper,  or  other,  that  he  wanted  for  journals  bound  up 
in  books,  he  purchased  his  paper  and  bound  it  for  himself  in 
convenient  volumes  of  the  right  shape  and  size. 

A  self-helping  man,  this  skill  grew  out  from  the  general  en 
dowment  of  his  reasonable  nature,  by  which  he  exercised  good 
judgment  in  whatever  he  did.  He  simply  applied  his  intel 
lectual  discernment  to  the  work  of  his  hands.  In  surveying  for 
the  farmers  he  constantly  displayed  this  ability  and  foresight, 
and  was  better  pleased  to  do  their  work  well  than  quickly  and 
cheaply.  Respecting  the  measure  of  land  he  was  excessively 
exact,  and  used  the  most  expensive  modes  to  calculate  his 
areas, — delighting  to  furnish  an  exact  plan  of  the  lots.  In 
time,  the  greater  part  of  the  farms  in  Concord  got  surveyed, 
and  many  planned;  but  this  was  not  all.  In  more  than  one 
instance  the  boundaries  were  first  found  from  old  deeds,  or 
traditions,  by  this  surveyor,  and  then  properly  mapped  and 

[14] 


EARLY     LIFE 

monumented.  The  farmers  liked  him ;  they  were  glad  to  have 
him  come  either  on  their  farms  or  in  their  houses. 

Thoreau  says  that  he  knew  he  loved  some  things,  and 
could  fall  back  on  them;  and  that  he  "never  chanced  to  meet 
with  any  man  so  cheering  and  elevating  and  encouraging,  so 
infinitely  suggestive,  as  the  stillness  and  solitude  of  the  Well- 
meadow  field.11  His  interest  in  swamps  and  bogs  was  familiar: 
it  grew  out  of  his  love  for  the  wild.  He  thought  that  he 
enjoyed  himself  in  Go  wing's  Swamp,  where  the  hairy  huckle 
berry  grows,  equal  to  a  domain  secured  to  him  and  reaching 
to  the  South  Sea;  and,  for  a  moment,  experienced  there  the 
same  sensation  as  if  he  were  alone  in  a  bog  in  Rupert's  Land, 
thus,  also,  saved  the  trouble  of  going  there.  The  small  cran 
berries  (not  the  common  species)  looked  to  him  "just  like 
some  kind  of  swamp-sparrow's  eggs  in  their  nest;  like  jewels 
worn  or  set  in  those  sphagnous  breasts  of  the  swamp, — 
swamp  pearls  we  might  call  them."  It  was  the  bog  in  our 
brain  and  bowels,  the  primitive  vigor  of  nature  in  us,  that 
inspired  that  dream;  for  Rupert's  Land  is  recognized  as 
surely  by  one  sense  as  another.  "Where  was  that  strain 
mixed  into  which  the  world  was  dropped  but  as  a  lump  of 
sugar  to  sweeten  the  draught?  I  would  be  drunk,  drunk, 
drunk, — dead-drunk  to  this  world  with  it  for  ever!" 

" Kings  unborn  shall  walk  with  me; 
And  the  poor  grass  shall  plot  and  plan 
What  it  will  do  when  it  is  man." 

This  tone  of  mind  grew  out  of  no  insensibility;  or,  if  he 
sometimes  looked  coldly  on  the  suffering  of  more  tender 

[15] 


THOREAU 

natures,  he  sympathized  with  their  afflictions,  but  could 
do  nothing  to  admire  them.  He  would  not  injure  a  plant 
unnecessarily.  And  once  meeting  two  scoundrels  who  had 
been  rude  to  a  young  girl  near  Walden  Pond,  he  took  instant 
means  for  their  arrest,  and  taught  them  not  to  repeat  that 
offence.  One  who  is  greatly  affected  by  the  commission  of  an 
ignoble  act  cannot  want  sentiment.  At  the  time  of  the  John 
Brown  tragedy,  Thoreau  was  driven  sick.  So  the  country's 
misfortunes  in  the  Union  war  acted  on  his  feelings  with  great 
force:  he  used  to  say  he  "could  never  recover  while  the  war 
lasted.1' 

The  high  moral  impulse  never  deserted  him,  and  he  re 
solved  early  (1851)  "to  read  no  book,  take  no  walk,  under 
take  no  enterprise,  but  such  as  he  could  endure  to  give  an 
account  of  to  himself;  and  live  thus  deliberately  for  the  most 
part."  In  our  estimate  of  his  character,  the  moral  qualities 
form  the  basis:  for  himself,  rigidly  enjoined;  if  in  another,  he 
could  overlook  delinquency.  Truth  before  all  things;  in  your 
daily  life,  integrity  before  all  things;  in  all  your  thoughts, 
your  faintest  breath,  the  austerest  purity,  the  utmost  fulfil 
ling  of  the  interior  law;  faith  in  friends,  and  an  iron  and 
flinty  pursuit  of  right,  which  nothing  can  tease  or  purchase 
out  of  us.  If  he  made  an  engagement,  he  was  certain  to  fulfil 
his  part  of  the  contract;  and  if  the  other  contractor  failed, 
then  his  rigor  of  opinion  prevailed,  and  he  never  more  dealt 
with  that  particular  bankrupt.  He  agreed  with  Quarles: — 

"Merchants,  arise 
And  mingle  conscience  with  your  merchandise." 

[16] 


EARLY     LIFE 

Thus,  too,  when  an  editor  (J.  R.  Lowell)  left  out  this  sen 
tence  from  one  of  his  pieces,  about  the  pine-tree,  —  "It  is  as 
immortal  as  I  am,  and  perchance  will  go  to  as  high  a  heaven, 
there  to  tower  above  me  still," — Thoreau,  having  given  no 
authority,  considered  the  bounds  of  right  were  passed,  and 
no  more  indulged  in  that  editor.  His  opinion  of  publishers 
was  not  flattering.  For  several  of  his  best  papers  he  received 
nothing  in  cash,  his  pay  coming  in  promises.  When  it  was 
found  that  his  writing  was  like  to  be  popular,  merchants 
were  ready  to  run  and  pay  for  it. 

Soap-grease  is  not  diamond;  to  use  a  saying  of  his,  "Thank 
God,  they  cannot  cut  down  the  clouds."  To  the  work  of 
every  man  justice  will  be  measured,  after  the  individual  is 
forgotten.  So  long  as  our  plain  country  is  admired,  the  books 
of  our  author  should  give  pleasure,  pictures  as  they  are  of 
the  great  natural  features,  illustrated  faithfully  with  details 
of  smaller  beauties,  and  having  the  pleasant,  nutty  flavor  of 
New  England.  The  chief  attraction  of  "The  Week"  and 
"Walden"  to  pure  and  aspiring  natures  consists  in  their 
lofty  and  practical  morality.  To  live  rightly,  never  to  swerve, 
and  to  believe  that  we  have  in  ourselves  a  drop  of  the  Origi 
nal  Goodness  besides  the  well-known  deluge  of  original  sin, 
— these  strains  sing  through  Thoreau's  writings.  Yet  he 
seemed  to  some  as  the  winter  he  once  described,  —  "hard  and 
bound-out  like  a  bone  thrown  to  a  famishing  dog." 

The  intensity  of  his  mind,  like  Dante's,  conveyed  the 
breathing  of  aloofness, — his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  his 
long,  swinging  gait,  his  hands  perhaps  clasped  behind  him 

[17] 


THOREAU 

or  held  closely  at  his  side,  the  fingers  made  into  a  fist.  Yet, 
like  the  lock -tender  at  Middlesex,  "he  was  meditating  some 
vast  and  sunny  problem,'"  or  giving  its  date  to  a  humble 
flower.  He  did,  in  one  manner,  live  in  himself,  as  the  poet 

says,— 

"Be  thy  own  palace,  or  the  world's  thy  jail;" 

or  as  Antoninus,  "Do  but  few  things  at  a  time,  it  has  been 
said,  if  thou  wouldst  preserve  thy  peace." 

A  pleasing  trait  of  his  warm  feeling  is  remembered,  when 
he  asked  his  mother,  before  leaving  college,  what  profession 
to  choose,  and  she  replied  pleasantly,  "You  can  buckle  on 
your  knapsack,  and  roam  abroad  to  seek  your  fortune."  The 
tears  came  in  his  eyes  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  when  his 
sister  Helen,  who  was  standing  by,  tenderly  put  her  arm 
around  him  and  kissed  him,  saying,  "No,  Henry,  you  shall 
not  go:  you  shall  stay  at  home  and  live  with  us."  He  also 
had  the  firmness  of  the  Indian,  and  could  repress  his  pathos; 
as  when  he  carried  (about  the  age  of  ten)  his  pet  chickens  to 
an  innkeeper  for  sale  in  a  basket,  who  thereupon  told  him 
" to  stop"  and  for  convenience"*  sake  took  them  out  one  by 
one  and  wrung  their  several  pretty  necks  before  the  poor 
boy's  eyes,  who  did  not  budge. 

His  habit  of  attending  strictly  to  his  own  affairs  appears 
from  this,  that  being  complained  of  for  taking  a  knife  be 
longing  to  another  boy,  Henry  said,  "I  did  not  take  it," — 
and  was  believed.  In  a  few  days  the  culprit  was  found,  and 
Henry  then  said,  "I  knew  all  the  time  who  it  was,  and  the 
day  it  was  taken  I  went  to  Newton  with  father."  "Well, 

[18] 


EARLY    LIFE 

then,"  of  course,  was  the  question,  "why  did  you  not  say  so 
at  the  time?"  "I  did  not  take  it,"  was  his  reply.  This  little 
anecdote  is  a  key  to  many  traits  in  his  character.  A  school 
fellow  complained  of  him  because  he  would  not  make  him  a 
bow  and  arrow,  his  skill  at  whittling  being  superior.  It  seems 
he  refused,  but  it  came  out  after  that  he  had  no  knife.  So, 
through  life,  he  steadily  declined  trying  or  pretending  to  do 
what  he  had  no  means  to  execute,  yet  forbore  explanations; 
and  some  have  thought  his  refusals  were  unwillingness.  When 
he  had  grown  to  an  age  suitable  for  company,  and  not  very 
fond  of  visiting,  he  could  not  give  the  common  refusal, — 
that  it  was  not  convenient,  or  not  in  his  power,  or  he  re 
gretted, —  but  said  the  truth, — "I  do  not  want  to  go." 

An  early  anecdote  remains  of  his  being  told  at  three  years 
that  he  must  die,  as  well  as  the  men  in  the  catechism.  He 
said  he  did  not  want  to  die,  but  was  reconciled;  yet,  coming 
in  from  coasting,  he  said  he  "did  not  want  to  die  and  go  to 
heaven,  because  he  could  not  carry  his  sled  with  him ;  for  the 
boys  said,  as  it  was  not  shod  with  iron,  it  was  not  worth  a 
cent."  This  answer  prophesied  the  future  man,  who  never 
could,  nor  did,  believe  in  a  heaven  to  which  he  could  not 
carry  his  views  and  principles,  some  of  which,  not  shod  with 
the  vanity  of  this  world,  were  pronounced  worthless.  In  his 
later  life,  on  being  conversed  with  about  leaving  here  as  a 
finality,  he  replied  that  "he  thought  he  should  not  go  away 
from  here." 

With  his  peculiarities,  he  did  not  fail  to  be  set  down  by 
some  as  an  original, — one  of  those  who  devise  needlessly  new 

[19] 


THOREAU 

ways  to  think  or  act.  His  retreat  from  the  domestic  camp  to 
picket  duty  at  Walden  gave  rise  to  sinister  criticism,  and 
he  was  asked  the  common  question  while  there,  "What  do 
you  live  here  for?"  as  the  man  wished  to  know  who  lost  his 
hound,  but  was  so  astonished  at  finding  Henry  in  the  woods, 
as  quite  to  forget  the  stray  dog.  He  had  lost  his  hound,  but 
he  had  found  a  man.  As  we  learn  from  the  verse, — 

"He  that  believes  himself  doth  never  lie/' 

so  Thoreau  lived  a  true  life  in  having  his  own  belief  in  it. 
We  may  profitably  distinguish  between  that  sham  egotism 
which  sets  itself  above  all  other  values,  and  that  loyal  faith 
in  our  instincts  on  which  all  sincere  living  rests.  His  life  was 
a  healthy  utterance,  a  free  and  vital  progress,  joyous  and 
serene,  and  thus  proving  its  value.  If  he  passed  by  forms 
that  others  hold,  it  was  because  his  time  and  means  were  in 
vested  elsewhere.  To  do  one  thing  well,  to  persevere,  and  ac 
complish  one  thing  perfectly,  was  his  faith;  and  he  said  that 
fame  was  sweet,  "  as  the  evidence  that  the  effort  was  a  success." 
Whether  from  his  long  and  unwearied  studies  of  the  In 
dian  character,  or  from  his  own  nature,  he  had  a  love  for  the 
fields  and  woods  and  wild  creatures  that  never  deserted  him; 
and  his  last  intelligible  words  were  "moose"  and  "Indian." 
For  the  city  he  felt  something  like  the  camels  and  camel- 
drivers  who  accompany  English  travellers  across  the  Desert, 
but  cannot  be  induced  to  enter  or  go  near  to  Cairo.  Many 
are  the  entries  in  his  Journal  of  his  visits  to  Cambridge, 
where  he  went  to  get  his  books  from  the  College  Library, 

[20] 


EARLY     LIFE 

and  to  have  a  chat  with  his  valued  friend,  the  naturalist  Dr. 
T.  W.  Harris,  a  former  librarian;  but  it  is  only  "To  Cam 
bridge  and  Boston.""  In  Boston  he  also  visited  libraries,  and 
the  end  of  Long  Wharf,  having  no  other  business  there  than 
with  the  books  and  that  brief  sight  of  the  sea,  so  fascinating 
to  a  landsman.  Thus  he  had  no  love  at  all  for  cities;  those 
curious  outcroppings  of  mortal  ingenuity,  called  "institu 
tions,"  furnished  him  more  than  one  good  mark  to  shoot  at. 
"One  wise  sentence,1'  he  said,  "is  worth  the  State  of  Massa 
chusetts  many  times  over." 

Henry,  from  his  childhood,  had  quite  a  peculiar  interest 
in  the  place  of  his  birth, — Concord.  He  lived  nowhere  else 
for  any  length  of  time,  and  Staten  Island,  or  the  White 
Hills,  or  New  Bedford,  seemed  little  to  him  contrasted  with 
that.  I  think  he  loved  Cape  Cod.  The  phrase  local  associa 
tions,  or  the  delightful  word  home,  do  not  explain  his  absorb 
ing  love  for  a  town  with  few  picturesque  attractions  beside 
its  river.  Concord  is  mostly  plain  land,  with  a  sandy  soil;  or, 
on  the  river,  wide  meadows,  covered  with  wild  grass,  and  apt 
to  be  flooded  twice  a  year  and  changed  to  shallow  ponds. 
The  absence  of  striking  scenery,  unpleasing  to  the  tourist,  is 
an  advantage  to  the  naturalist:  too  much  farming  and  gen 
tlemen's  estates  are  in  his  way.  Concord  contains  an  unusual 
extent  of  wood  and  meadow;  and  the  wood-lots,  when  cut 
off,  are  usually  continued  for  the  same  purpose.  So  it  is  a  vil 
lage  surrounded  by  tracts  of  woodland  and  meadow,  abound 
ing  in  convenient  yet  retired  paths  for  walking. 

No  better  place  for  his  business.  He  enjoyed  its  use  be- 

[21  ] 


THOREAU 

cause  he  found  there  his  materials  for  work.  Perhaps  the 
river  was  his  great  blessing  in  the  landscape.  No  better 
stream  for  boating  in  New  England,  —  "the  sluggish  artery 
of  the  Concord,11  as  he  names  it.  By  this,  he  could  go  to 
other  points ;  as  a  trip  up  the  river  rarely  ended  with  the 
water,  but  the  shore  was  sought  for  some  special  purpose,  to 
examine  an  animal  or  a  plant,  or  get  a  wider  view,  or  collect 
some  novelty  or  crop.  The  study  of  the  river-plants  never 
ended,  and,  like  themselves,  floated  for  ever  with  the  sweet 
waves;  the  birds  and  insects  peculiarly  attracted  to  the 
shores,  the  fish  and  musquash,  the  sun  and  wind,  were  in 
teresting.  The  first  spring  days  smile  softest  on  the  river, 
and  the  fleet  of  withered  leaves  sailing  down  the  stream  in 
autumn  give  a  stately  finish  to  the  commerce  of  the  seasons. 

The  hills,  Anursnuc,  Nashawtuc,  Fairhaven,  are  not  lofty. 
Yet  they  have  sufficient  outlook,  and  carry  the  eye  to  Mo- 
nadnoc  and  the  Peterboro1  Hills,  while  nearer  blue  Wachu- 
sett  stands  alone.  Thoreau  visited  more  than  once  the  prin 
cipal  mountains  in  his  prospect.  It  was  like  looking  off*  on  a 
series  of  old  homes.  He  went  in  the  choice  August  or  Sep 
tember  days,  and  picked  berries  on  Monadnoc's  stony  pla 
teau,  took  his  roomy  walk  over  the  Mason  Hills,  or  explored 
the  great  Wachusett  pasture, — the  fairest  sight  eye  ever  saw. 

For  daily  talk,  Fairhaven  Hill  answered  very  well.  From 
this  may  be  seen  that  inexhaustible  expanse,  Conantum,  with 
its  homely  slopes;  thence  Blue  Hill,  Nobscot,  the  great  elm 
of  Weston,  and  Prospect  Hill.  From  the  hills,  always  the 
stream,  the  bridges,  the  meadows:  the  latter,  when  flowed, 

[22] 


EARLY     LIFE 

the  finest  place  for  ducks  and  gulls;  whilst  in  their  dry  dress 
they  furnish  opportunities,  from  Copan  down  to  Carlisle 
Bridge,  or  from  Lee's  Cliff  to  the  causey  in  Wayland,  for  ex 
ploration  in  the  mines  of  natural  history.  As  the  life  of  a 
hunter  furnishes  an  endless  story  of  wood  and  field,  though 
pursued  alone,  so  Nature  has  this  inevitable  abundance  to 
the  naturalist;  to  the  docile  eye,  a  meadow-spring  can  fur 
nish  a  tide  of  discourse. 

Three  spacious  tracts,  uncultivated,  where  the  patches  of 
scrub-oak,  wild  apples,  barberries,  and  other  plants  grew, 
which  Thoreau  admired,  were  Walden  Woods,  the  Estabrook 
country,  and  the  old  Marlboro1  road.  A  poem  on  the  latter 
crops  out  of  his  strictures  on  "Walking.1"  They  represent  the 
fact  as  botanists,  naturalists,  or  walkers  would  have  it, — in  a 
russet  suit  for  field  sports,  not  too  much  ploughed  and  fur 
rowed  out,  with  an  eye  looking  to  the  sky.  Thoreau  said  that 
his  heaven  was  south  or  south-west,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  old  Marlboro1  road.  They  have  their  ponds,  choice  fields 
or  plants,  in  many  cases  carefully  hid  away.  He  was  com 
pelled  to  name  places  for  himself,  like  all  fresh  explorers. 
His  Utricularia  Bay,  Mount  Misery,  Cohosh  Swamp,  Blue 
Heron  Rock,  Pleasant  Meadow,  Scrub-oak  Plain,  denote  lo 
calities  near  Fairhaven  Bay.  He  held  to  the  old  titles;  thus, 
—the  Holt  (in  Old  English,  a  small,  wooded  tongue  of  land 
in  a  river),  Beck  Stow's  Hole,  Seven-star  Lane,  and  the  Price 
Road.  He  knew  the  woods  as  a  poet  and  engineer,  and 
studied  their  successions,  the  growth  and  age  of  each  patch, 
from  year  to  year,  with  the  chiefs  of  our  forest,  the  white-pine, 

[23] 


THOREAU 

the  pitch-pine,  and  the  oak.  Single  localities  of  plants  occur: 
in  Mason's  pasture  is,  or  was,  a  bay  berry ;  on  Fairhaven  Hill 
a  patch  of  yew.  Some  warm  side-hills  afford  a  natural  green 
house.  Thus  Lee's  Cliff,  on  Fairhaven  Pond,  shelters  early 
cress  and  tower  mustard,  as  well  as  pewees.  If  the  poet's 
faculty  be  naming,  he  can  find  applications  for  it  in  the 
country.  Thoreau  had  his  Thrush  Alley  and  Stachys  Shore. 

A  notice  of  him  would  be  incomplete  which  did  not  refer 
to  his  fine  social  qualities.  He  served  his  friends  sincerely  and 
practically.  In  his  own  home  he  was  one  of  those  characters 
who  may  be  called  household  treasures:  always  on  the  spot 
with  skilful  eye  and  hand  to  raise  the  best  melons  in  the 
garden,  plant  the  orchard  with  the  choicest  trees,  or  act  as 
extempore  mechanic;  fond  of  the  pets,  the  sister's  flowers,  or 
sacred  Tabby.  Kittens  were  his  favorites, — he  would  play  with 
them  by  the  half-hour.  Some  have  fancied  because  he  moved 
to  Walden  he  left  his  family.  He  bivouacked  there,  and  really 
lived  at  home,  where  he  went  every  day. 

It  is  needless  to  dwell  on  the  genial  and  hospitable  enter 
tainer  he  always  was.  His  readers  came  many  miles  to  see  him, 
attracted  by  his  writings.  Those  who  could  not  come  sent 
their  letters.  Those  who  came  when  they  could  no  more  see 
him,  as  strangers  on  a  pilgrimage,  seemed  as  if  they  had  been 
his  intimates,  so  warm  and  cordial  was  the  sympathy  they 
received  from  his  letters.  If  he  did  the  duties  that  lay  near 
est  and  satisfied  those  in  his  immediate  circle,  certainly  he 
did  a  good  work;  and  whatever  the  impressions  from  the 
theoretical  part  of  his  writings,  when  the  matter  is  probed  to 

[  24] 


EARLY     LIFE 

the  bottom,  good  sense  and  good  feeling  will  be  detected  in 
it.  A  great  comfort  in  him,  he  was  eminently  reliable.  No 
whim  of  coldness,  no  absorption  of  his  time  by  public  or  pri 
vate  business,  deprived  those  to  whom  he  belonged  of  his 
kindness  and  affection.  He  was  at  the  mercy  of  no  caprice: 
of  a  firm  will  and  uncompromising  sternness  in  his  moral 
nature,  he  carried  the  same  qualities  into  his  relation  with 
others,  and  gave  them  the  best  he  had,  without  stint.  He 
loved  firmly,  acted  up  to  his  love,  was  a  believer  in  it,  took 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  in  abiding  by  it.  As  Rev.  James 
Froysell  says  of  Sir  Robert  Harley,  the  grandfather  of  Pope's 
Harley, — "My  language  is  not  a  match  for  his  excellent  vir 
tues  ;  his  spirituall  lineaments  and  beauties  are  above  my  pen 
cil.  I  want  art  to  draw  his  picture.  I  know  he  had  his  human 
ities.  ...  He  was  a  friend  to  God's  friends.  They  that  did 
love  God  had  his  love.  God's  people  were  his  darlings;  they 
had  the  cream  of  his  affection.  If  any  poor  Christian  were 
crushed  by  malice  or  wrong,  whither  would  they  fly  but  to 
Sir  Robert  Harley?"1 

1  Sir  Robert  was  husband  of  Lady  Brilliana  Harley,  cited  in  Channing's 
preface,  who  was  the  daughter  of  Edward,  Viscount  Conway,  Governor 
of  the  Brill  in  Holland  when  she  was  born  there ;  hence  her  odd  name. 
She  defended  Brampton  Hall  valiantly  against  the  Cavaliers  in  1643,  but 
died  soon  after;  her  husband  died  in  1656,  aged  seventy-seven.  The  pas 
sage  quoted  is  from  his  funeral  sermon  preached  December  10,  1656,  by 
Rev.  James  Froysell,  as  Collins  calls  him  in  his  "Peerage"  (IV.  245);  it 
was  published  and  dedicated  to  Colonel  Edward  Harley,  Oxford's  father. 
A  son  of  Sir  Robert,  Nathaniel  Harley,  was  a  Levant  merchant  in  Asia. 


[25] 


MANNERS 


"Since  they  can  only  judge,  who  can  confer." 

BEN  "JOHNSON" 

(so  Sen  spelt  his  name). 


CHAPTER     II 

MANNERS 

WE  hear  complaint  that  he  set  up  for  a  reformer;  and  what 
capital,  then,  had  he  to  embark  in  that  line?  How  was  it  he 
knew  so  much  more  than  the  rest,  as  to  correct  abuses,  to 
make  over  church  and  state  ?J3e  had  no  reform  theories,  but 
used  his  opinions  in  literature  for  the  benefit  of  man  and  the 
glory  of  God.  Advice  he  did  not  give.  His  exhortations  to 
young  students  and  poor  Christians  who  desired  to  know  his 
economy  never  meant  to  exclude  the  reasonable  charities. 
Critics  have  eagerly  rushed  to  make  this  modest  citizen  and 
"home-body"  one  of  the  travelling  conversational  Shylocks, 
who  seek  their  pound  of  flesh  in  swallowing  humanity,  each 
the  special  savior  on  his  own  responsibility.  As  he  says  of 
some  reformers,  "They  addressed  each  other  continually  by 
their  Christian  names,  and  rubbed  you  continually  with  the 
greasy  cheek  of  their  kindness.  They  would  not  keep  their 
distance,  but  cuddle  up  and  lie  spoon-fashion  with  you,  no 
matter  how  hot  the  weather  or  how  narrow  the  bed.  ...  It 
was  difficult  to  keep  clear  of  the  slimy  benignity  with  which 
H.  C.  Wright  sought  to  cover  you,  before  he  took  you  fairly 
into  his  bowels.  He  addressed  me  as  Henry,  within  one  min 
ute  from  the  time  I  first  laid  eyes  on  him ;  and  when  I  spoke, 
he  said,  with  drawling,  sultry  sympathy:  'Henry,  I  know  all 
you  would  say,  I  understand  you  perfectly:  you  need  not  ex 
plain  anything  to  me."1  Neither  did  he  belong  to  the  "Mutual 

[29] 


THOREAU 

Admiration"  society,  where  the  dunce  passes  for  gold  by  rub 
bing  his  fractional  currency  on  pure  metal.  His  was  not  an 
admiring  character. 

The  opinion  of  some  of  his  readers  and  lovers  has  been 
that,  in  his  "Week,"  the  best  is  the  discourse  of  Friend 
ship.  It  is  certainly  a  good  specimen  of  his  peculiar  style, 
but  it  should  never  be  forgot  that  the  treatment  is  poetical 
and  romantic.  No  writer  more  demands  that  his  reader,  his 
critic,  should  look  at  his  writing  as  a  work  of  art.  Because 
Michel  Angelo  painted  the  Last  Judgment,  we  do  not  accuse 
him  of  being  a  j  udge :  he  is  working  as  artist.  So  our  author, 
in  his  writing  on  Friendship,  treats  the  topic  in  a  too  distant 
fashion.  Some  might  call  it  a  lampoon:  others  say,  "Why! 
this  watery,  moonlit  glance  and  glimpse  contains  no  more 
of  the  flesh  and  blood  of  friendship  than  so  much  lay-figure; 
if  this  was  all  the  writer  knew  of  Friendship,  he  had  better 
have  sheared  oif  and  let  this  craft  go  free."  When  he  says, 
"One  goes  forth  prepared  to  say  'Sweet  friends!'  and  the 
salutation  is,  'Damn  your  eyes!1" — to  read  this  literally 
would  be  to  accuse  him  of  stupidity.  The  meaning  is  plain : 
he  was  romancing  with  his  subject,  playing  a  strain  on  his 
theorbo  like  the  bobolink. 

The  living,  actual  friendship  and  affection  which  makes 
time  a  reality,  no  one  knew  better.  He  gossips  of  a  high, 
imaginary  world,  giving  a  glance  of  that  to  the  inhabitants 
of  this  world;  bringing  a  few  mother-of-pearl  tints  from  the 
skies  to  refresh  us  in  our  native  place.  He  did  not  wish  for  a 
set  of  cheap  friends  to  eat  up  his  time ;  was  rich  enough  to  go 

[30] 


MANNERS 

without  a  train  of  poor  relations, — the  menagerie  of  dunces 
with  open  mouths.  In  the  best  and  practical  sense,  no  one  had 
more  friends  or  was  better  loved.  He  drew  near  him  simple, 
unlettered  Christians,  who  had  questions  they  wished  to  dis 
cuss;  for,  though  nothing  was  less  to  his  mind  than  chopped 
logic,  he  was  ready  to  accommodate  those  who  differed  from 
him  with  his  opinion;  and  never  too  much  convinced  by  op 
position.  To  those  in  need  of  information — to  the  farmer- 
botanist  naming  the  new  flower,  the  boy  with  his  puzzle  of 
birds  or  roads,  or  the  young  woman  seeking  for  books — he 
was  always  ready  to  give  what  he  had. 

Literally,  his  views  of  friendship  were  high  and  noble. 
Those  who  loved  him  never  had  the  least  reason  to  regret  it. 
He  made  no  useless  professions,  never  asked  one  of  those 
questions  which  destroy  all  relation;  but  he  was  on  the  spot 
at  the  time,  and  had  so  much  of  human  life  in  his  keeping, 
to  the  last,  that  he  could  spare  a  breathing  place  for  a  friend. 
When  I  said  that  a  change  had  come  over  the  dream  of  life, 
and  that  solitude  began  to  peer  out  curiously  from  the  dells 
and  wood-roads,  he  whispered,  with  his  foot  on  the  step  of  the 
other  world,  "It  is  better  some  things  should  end.1'  Having 
this  unfaltering  faith,  and  looking  thus  on  life  and  death 
(after  which,  the  poet  Chapman  says,  a  man  has  nothing  to 
fear),  let  it  be  said  for  ever  that  there  was  no  affectation  or 
hesitancy  in  his  dealing  with  his  friends.  He  meant  friendship, 
and  meant  nothing  else,  and  stood  by  it  without  the  slightest 
abatement;  not  veering  as  a  weathercock  with  each  shift  of  a 
friend's  fortune,  or  like  those  who  bury  their  early  friendships 

[31] 


THOREAU 

in  order  to  gain  room  for  fresh  corpses.  If  he  was  of  a  Spar 
tan  mould,  in  a  manner  austere,  if  his  fortune  was  not  vast, 
and  his  learning  somewhat  special,  he  yet  had  what  is  better, 
— the  old  Roman  belief  which  confided  there  was  more  in  this 
life  than  applause  and  the  best  seat  at  the  dinner- table :  to 
have  a  moment  to  spare  to  thought  and  imagination,  and  to 
the  res  rusticoe  and  those  who  need  you; 

"That  hath  no  side  at  all 
But  of  himself." 


c 


A  pleasant  account  of  this  easy  assimilation  is  given  in  his 
visit  to  Canton,  where  in  his  Sophomore  year  (1834-35)  he 
kept  a  school  of  seventy  pupils,  and  where  he  was  consigned 
to  the  care  of  Rev.  O.  A.  Brownson,  then  a  Unitarian  clergy 
man,  for  examination.  The  two  sat  up  talking  till  midnight, 
and  Mr.  Brownson  informed  the  School  Committee  that  Mr. 
Thoreau  was  examined,  and  would  do,  and  would  board  with 
him.  So  they  struck  heartily  to  studying  German,  and  getting 
all  they  could  of  the  time  together,  like  old  friends.  Another 
early  experience  was  the  town  school  in  Concord,  which  he 
took  after  leaving  college,  announcing  that  he  should  not 
flog,  but  would  talk  morals  as  a  punishment  instead.  A  fort 
night  sped  glibly  along,  when  a  knowing  deacon,  one  of  the 
School  Committee,  walked  in  and  told  Mr.  Thoreau  that  he 
must  flog  and  use  the  ferule,  or  the  school  would  spoil.  So  he 
did, — feruling  six  of  his  pupils  after  school,  one  of  whom  was 
the  maid-servant  in  his  own  house.  But  it  did  not  suit  well 
with  his  conscience,  and  he  reported  to  the  committee  that 

[32] 


MANNERS 

he  should  no  longer  keep  their  school,  if  they  interfered  with 
his  arrangements;  and  they  could  keep  it. 

A  moment  may  be  spent  on  a  few  traits  of  Thoreau,  of  the 
personal  kind.  In  height,  he  was  about  the  average;  in  his 
build,  spare,  with  limbs  that  were  rather  longer  than  usual, 
or  of  which  he  made  a  longer  use.  His  face,  once  seen,  could 
not  be  forgotten.  The  features  were  marked:  the  nose  aqui 
line  or  very  Roman,  like  one  of  the  portraits  of  Caesar  (more 
like  a  beak,  as  was  said);  large,  overhanging  brows  above  the 
deepest  set  blue  eyes  that  could  be  seen, — blue  in  certain 
lights,  and  in  others  gray, — eyes  expressive  of  all  shades  of 
feeling,  but  never  weak  or  near-sighted;  the  forehead  not  un 
usually  broad  or  high,  full  of  concentrated  energy  and  pur 
pose;  the  mouth  with  prominent  lips,  pursed  up  with  mean 
ing  and  thought  when  silent,  and  giving  out,  when  open,  a 
stream  of  the  most  varied  and  unusual  and  instructive  say 
ings.  His  hair  was  a  dark  brown,  exceedingly  abundant,  fine 
and  soft;  and  for  several  years  he  wore  a  comely  beard.  His 
whole  figure  had  an  active  earnestness,  as  if  he  had  no  mo 
ment  to  waste.  The  clenched  hand  betokened  purpose.  In 
walking,  he  made  a  short  cut  if  he  could,  and  when  sitting 
in  the  shade  or  by  the  wall-side,  seemed  merely  the  clearer 
to  look  forward  into  the  next  piece  of  activity.  Even  in  the 
boat  he  had  a  wary,  transitory  air,  his  eyes  on  the  outlook, 
—perhaps  there  might  be  ducks,  or  the  Blanding  turtle,  or 
an  otter  or  sparrow. 

He  was  a  plain  man  in  his  features  and  dress,  one  who 
could  not  be  mistaken.  This  kind  of  plainness  is  not  out  of 

[33] 


THOREAU 

keeping  with  beauty.  He  sometimes  went  as  far  as  homeliness; 
which  again,  even  if  there  be  a  prejudice  against  it,  shines 
out  at  times  beyond  a  vulgar  sense.  Thus,  he  alludes  to  those 
who  pass  the  night  on  a  steamer's  deck,  and  see  the  moun 
tains  in  moonlight ;  and  he  did  this  himself  once  on  the  Hud 
son,  at  the  prow,  when,  after  a  "hemr>  or  two,  the  passenger 
who  stood  next  inquired  in  good  faith:  "Come,  now,  can't  ye 
lend  me  a  chaw  o'  baccy?"  He  looked  like  a  shipmate.  It  was 
on  another  Albany  steamboat  that  he  walked  the  deck  hun 
grily,  among  the  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies,  eating  upon  a 
half-loaf  of  bread,  his  dinner  for  the  day,  and  very  late.  A 
plain  man  could  do  this  heartily:  in  an  ornamental,  scented 
thing  it  looks  affected. 

That  was  before  the  pedestrian  disease.  In  that,  once,  as  he 
came  late  into  a  town  devoid  of  a  tavern,  on  going  to  the 
best-looking  house  in  the  place  for  a  bed,  he  got  one  in  the 
entry,  within  range  of  the  family,  his  speech  and  manners  be 
ing  those  of  polite  society.  In  some  of  our  retired  towns  there 
are  traditions  of  lodgers  who  arise  before  light  and  depart 
with  the  feather  bed,  or  the  origin  of  feathers  in  the  hencoop. 
Once  walking  in  old  Dunstable,  he  much  desired  the  town 
history  by  C.  J.  Fox  of  Nashua;  and,  knocking,  as  usual,  at 
the  best  house,  he  went  in  and  asked  a  young  lady  who  made 
her  appearance  whether  she  had  the  book  in  question.  She 
had, — it  was  produced.  After  consulting  it,  Thoreau  in  his 
sincere  way  inquired  very  modestly  whether  she  "would  not 
sell  it  to  him."  I  think  the  plan  surprised  her,  and  have  heard 
that  she  smiled ;  but  he  produced  his  wallet,  gave  her  the  pis- 

[34] 


MANNERS 

tareen,  and  went  his  way  rejoicing  with  the  book,  which  re 
mained  in  his  small  library. 

He  did  his  stint  of  walking  on  Cape  Cod,  where  a  stranger 
attracts  a  partial  share  of  criticism,  and  "looked  despairingly 
at  the  sandy  village  whose  street  he  must  run  the  gauntlet 
of;  there  only  by  sufferance,  and  feeling  as  strange  as  if  he 
were  in  a  town  in  China."  One  of  the  old  Cod  could  not  be 
lieve  that  Thoreau  was  not  a  pedler;  but  said,  after  expla 
nations  failed,  "Well,  it  makes  no  odds  what  else  it  is  you 
carry,  so  long  as  you  carry  truth  along  with  you.""  One  of 
those  idiots  who  may  be  found  in  some  Cape  Cod  houses, 
grim  and  silent,  one  night  mumbled  he  would  get  his  gun, 
"and  shoot  that  damned  pedler."  And,  indeed,  he  might  have 
followed  in  the  wake  of  a  spectacle  pedler  who  started  from 
the  inn  of  Meg-  Dods  in  Wellfleet,  the  same  morning,  both  of 
them  looking  after  and  selling  spectacles.  He  once  appeared 
in  the  mist,  in  a  remote  part  of  the  Cape,  with  a  bird  tied  to 
the  top  of  his  umbrella,  which  he  shouldered  like  a  gun :  the 
inhabitants  of  the  first  cottage  set  the  traveller  down  for  a 
"crazy  fellow."  At  Orleans  he  was  comforted  by  tw9  Italian 
organ-boys  who  had  ground  their  harmonies  from  Province- 
town,  for  twoscore  miles  in  the  sand,  fresh  and  gay.  He  once 
stopped  at  a  hedge-tavern  where  a  large  white  bull-dog  was 
kept  in  the  entry:  on  asking  the  bar-tender  what  Cerberus 
would  do  to  an  early  riser,  he  replied,  "Do? — why,  he  would 
tear  out  the  substance  of  your  pantaloons."  This  was  a  good 
notice  not  to  quit  the  premises  without  meeting  the  rent. 

Whatever  was  suitable  he  did :  as  lecturing  in  the  basement 
[35] 


THOREAU 

of  an  Orthodox  church  in  Amherst,  New  Hampshire,  when 
he  hoped  facetiously  he  "contributed  something  to  upheave 
and  demolish  the  structure.1'  He  once  lectured  in  a  Boston 
reading-room,  the  subscribers  sniffing  their  chloroform  of 
journals,  not  awoke  by  the  lecture.  A  simple  person  can  thus 
find  easy  paths.  In  the  course  of  his  travels,  he  sometimes 
met  with  a  character  that  inspired  him  to  describe  it.  He 
drew  this  Flemish  sketch  of  a  citizen  of  New  York. 

"Getting  into  Patchogue  late  one  night,  there  was  a 
drunken  Dutchman  on  board,  whose  wit  reminded  me  of 
Shakespeare.  When  we  came  to  leave  the  beach  our  boat  was 
aground,  and  we  were  detained  waiting  for  the  tide.  In  the 
mean  while,  two  of  the  fishermen  took  an  extra  dram  at  the 
Beach  House.  Then  they  stretched  themselves  on  the  seaweed 
by  the  shore  in  the  sun,  to  sleep  off  the  effects  of  their  de 
bauch.  One  was  an  inconceivably  broad -faced  young  Dutch 
man,  but  oh!  of  such  a  peculiar  breadth  and  heavy  look,  I 
should  not  know  whether  to  call  it  more  ridiculous  or  sub 
lime.  You  would  say  that  he  had  humbled  himself  so  much 
that  he  was  beginning  to  be  exalted.  An  indescribable  Myn- 
heerish  stupidity.  I  was  less  disgusted  by  their  filthiness  and 
vulgarity,  because  I  was  compelled  to  look  on  them  as  ani 
mals,  as  swine  in  their  stye.  For  the  whole  voyage  they  lay 
flat  on  their  backs  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  in  the  bilge- 
water,  and  wet  with  each  bailing,  half-insensible  and  wallow 
ing  in  their  filth.  But  ever  and  anon,  when  aroused  by  the 
rude  kicks  of  the  skipper,  the  Dutchman,  who  never  lost  his 
wits  nor  equanimity,  though  snoring  and  rolling  in  the  reek 

[36] 


MANNERS 

produced  by  his  debauch,  blurted  forth  some  happy  repartee 
like  an  illuminated  swine.  It  was  the  earthliest,  slimiest  wit  I 
ever  heard. 

"The  countenance  was  one  of  a  million.  It  was  unmistakable 
Dutch.  In  the  midst  of  a  million  faces  of  other  races  it  could 
not  be  mistaken.  It  told  of  Amsterdam.  I  kept  racking  my 
brains  to  conceive  how  he  had  been  born  in  America,  how 
lonely  he  must  feel,  what  he  did  for  fellowship.  When  we  were 
groping  up  the  narrow  creek  of  Patchogue  at  ten  o'clock  at 
night,  keeping  our  boat  now  from  this  bank,  now  from  that, 
with  a  pole,  the  two  inebriates  roused  themselves  betimes. 
For  in  spite  of  their  low  estate  they  seemed  to  have  all  their 
wits  as  much  about  them  as  ever,  ay,  and  all  the  self-respect 
they  ever  had.  And  the  Dutchman  gave  wise  directions  to 
the  steerer,  which  were  not  heeded  (told  where  eels  were 
plenty,  in  the  dark,  etc.).  At  last  he  suddenly  stepped  on  to 
another  boat  which  was  moored  to  the  shore,  with  a  divine 
ease  and  sureness,  saying,  'Well,  good-night,  take  care  of 
yourselves,  I  can't  be  with  you  any  longer.'  He  was  one  of 
the  few  remarkable  men  I  have  met.  I  have  been  inspired  by 
one  or  two  men  in  their  cups.  There  was  really  a  divinity 
stirred  within  them,  so  that  in  their  case  I  have  reverenced 
the  drunken,  as  savages  do  the  insane  man.  So  stupid  that  he 
could  never  be  intoxicated;  when  I  said,  'You  have  had  a 
hard  time  of  it  to-day,'  he  answered  with  indescribable  good- 
humor  out  of  the  very  midst  of  his  debauch,  with  watery  eyes, 
'It  doesn't  happen  every  day.'  It  was  happening  then." 

With  these  plain  ways,  no  person  was  usually  easier  mis- 
[37] 


THOREAU 

applied  by  the  cultivated  class  than  Thoreau.  Some  of  those 
afflicted  about  him  have  started  with  the  falsetto  of  a  void 
estimate  on  his  life,  his  manners,  sentiments,  and  all  that  in 
him  was.  His  two  books,  "Walden"  and  the  "Week,"  are  so 
excellent  and  generally  read,  that  a  commendation  of  their 
easy,  graceful,  yet  vigorous  style  and  matter  is  superfluous. 
Singular  traits  run  through  his  writing.  His  sentences  will 
bear  study;  meanings  appear  not  detected  at  the  first  glance, 
subtle  hints  which  the  writer  himself  may  not  have  foreseen. 
It  is  a  good  English  style,  growing  out  of  choice  reading 
and  familiarity  with  the  classic  writers,  with  the  originality 
adding  a  piquant  humor,  and  unstudied  felicities  of  diction. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  degree  an  imitator  of  any  writer,  old 
or  new,  and  with  little  of  his  times  or  their  opinions  in  his 
books. 

Never  eager,  with  a  pensive  hesitancy  he  steps  about  his 
native  fields,  singing  the  praises  of  music  and  spring  and 
morning,  forgetful  of  himself.  No  matter  where  he  might 
have  lived,  or  in  what  circumstance,  he  would  have  been  a 
writer:  he  was  made  for  this  by  all  his  tendencies  of  mind 
and  temperament;  a  writer  because  a  thinker,  and  even  a 
philosopher,  a  lover  of  wisdom.  No  bribe  could  have  drawn 
him  from  his  native  fields,  where  his  ambition  was — a  very 
honorable  one — to  fairly  represent  himself  in  his  works,  ac 
complishing  as  perfectly  as  lay  in  his  power  what  he  con 
ceived  his  business.  More  society  would  have  impaired  his  de 
signs;  and  a  story  from  a  fisher  or  hunter  was  better  to  him 
than  an  evening  of  triviality  in  shining  parlors  where  he  was 

[38] 


MANNERS 

misunderstood.  His  eye  and  ear  and  hand  fitted  in  with  the 
special  task  he  undertook, — certainly  as  manifest  a  destiny 
as  any  man's  ever  was.  The  best  test  of  the  worth  of  charac 
ter, — whether  the  person  lived  a  contented,  joyous  life,  filled 
his  hours  agreeably,  was  useful  in  his  way,  and  on  the  whole 
achieved  his  purposes, — this  he  possessed. 

The  excellence  of  his  books  and  style  is  identical  with  the 
excellence  of  his  private  life.  He  wished  to  write  living  books 
that  spoke  of  out-of-door  things,  as  if  written  by  an  out- 
of-door  man;  and  thinks  his  "Week1'  had  that  hypcethral 
character  he  hoped  for.  In  this  he  was  an  artist.  The  impres 
sion  of  the  "Week"  and  "Walden"  is  single,  as  of  a  living 
product,  a  perfectly  jointed  building;  yet  no  more  composite 
productions  could  be  cited.  The  same  applies  to  the  lectures 
on  "Wild  Apples'"  or  "Autumnal  Tints,""  which  possess  this 
unity  of  treatment;  yet  the  materials  were  drawn  from  the 
utmost  variety  of  resources,  observations  made  years  apart,  so 
skilfully  woven  as  to  appear  a  seamless  garment  of  thought. 
This  constructive,  combining  talent  belongs  with  his  adapt- 
edness  to  the  pursuit.  Other  gifts  were  subsidiary  to  his  lit 
erary  gift.  He  observed  nature;  but  who  would  have  known 
or  heard  of  that  except  through  his  literary  effort?  He  ob 
served  nature,  yet  not  for  the  sake  of  nature,  but  of  man ; 
and  says,  "If  it  is  possible  to  conceive  of  an  event  outside  to 
humanity,  it  is  not  of  the  slightest  importance,  though  it 
were  the  explosion  of  the  planet." 

Success  is  his  rule.  He  had  practised  a  variety  of  arts  with 
many  tools.  Both  he  and  his  father  were  ingenious  persons 

[39] 


THOREAU 

(the  latter  a  pencil-maker)  and  fond  of  experimenting.  To 
show  the  excellence  of  their  work,  they  resolved  to  make  as 
good  a  pencil  out  of  plumbago  paste  as  those  sawed  from 
black  lead  in  London.  The  result  was  accomplished  and  the 
certificate  obtained,  Thoreau  himself  claiming  a  good  share 
of  the  success,  as  he  found  the  means  to  cut  the  plates.  After 
his  father's  death  in  1859,  he  carried  on  the  pencil  and 
plumbago  business;  had  his  own  mill,  and  used  the  same 
punctuality  and  prudence  in  these  affairs  as  had  ever  distin 
guished  him. 

In  one  or  two  of  his  later  articles,  expressions  crept  in 
which  might  lead  the  reader  to  suspect  him  of  moroseness,  or 
that  his  old  trade  of  schoolmaster  stuck  to  him.  He  rubbed 
out  as  perfectly  as  he  could  the  more  humorous  part  of  those 
articles,  originally  a  relief  to  their  sterner  features,  and  said, 
to  me,  "I  cannot  bear  the  levity  I  find."  To  which  I  replied, 
that  it  was  hoped  he  would  spare  them,  even  to  the  puns, 
which  he  sometimes  indulged.  When  a  farmer  drove  up  with 
a  strange  pair  of  long-tailed  ponies,  his  companion  asked 
whether  such  a  person  would  not  carry  a  Colt's  revolver  to 
protect  him  in  the  solitude?  Thoreau  replied  that  "he  did 
not  know  about  that,  but  he  saw  he  had  a  pair  of  revolv 
ing  colts  before  him."  A  lady  once  asked  whether  he  ever 
laughed.  She  was  well  acquainted  with  him  halfway,  but  did 
not  see  him,  unless  as  a  visitor;  and  he  never  became  versed 
in  making  formal  visits,  nor  had  much  success  with  first 
acquaintance.  As  to  his  laughing,  no  one  did  that  more  or 
better.  One  was  surprised  to  see  him  dance, — he  had  been 

[40] 


MANNERS 

well  taught,  and  was  a  vigorous  dancer;  and  any  one  who 
ever  heard  him  sing  "Tom  Bowline"  will  agree  that,  in  tune 
and  in  tone,  he  answered,  and  went  far  beyond,  all  expecta 
tion.  His  favorite  songs  were  Mrs.  Hemans's  "Pilgrim  Fa 
thers,""  Moore's  "Evening  Bells"  and  "Canadian  Boat  Song," 
and  Wolfe's  "Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore," — precisely  the 
most  tender  and  popular  songs.  And  oh,  how  sweetly  he 
played  upon  his  flute !  Not  unfrequently  he  sang  that  brave 
catch  of  Izaak  Walton's, — 

"In  the  morning  when  we  rise, 
Take  a  cup  to  wash  our  eyes,"  — 

his  cup  being  cold  water.  The  Indians  loved  to  drink  at  run 
ning  brooks  which  were  warm,  but  he  loved  ice-cold  water. 
Summer  or  winter  he  drank  very  little,  and  would  sometimes 
try  to  recollect  when  he  drank  last. 

Before  he  set  out  on  a  foot  journey,  he  collected  every  in 
formation  as  to  the  routes  and  the  place  to  which  he  was 
going,  through  the  maps  and  guide-books.  For  Massachusetts 
he  had  the  large  State  map  divided  in  portions  convenient, 
and  carried  in  a  cover  such  parts  as  he  wanted:  he  deemed 
this  map,  for  his  purposes,  excellent.  Once  he  made  for  him 
self  a  knapsack,  with  partitions  for  his  books  and  papers,— 
india-rubber  cloth,  strong  and  large  and  spaced  (the  com 
mon  knapsacks  being  unspaced).  The  partitions  were  made 
of  stout  book-paper.  His  route  being  known,  he  made  a  list 
of  all  he  should  carry, — the  sewing  materials  never  forgotten 
(as  he  was  a  vigorous  walker,  and  did  not  stick  at  a  hedge 

[41  ] 


THOREAU 

more  than  an  English  racer),  the  pounds  of  bread,  the  sugar, 
salt,  and  tea  carefully  decided  on.  After  trying  the  merit 
of  cocoa,  coffee,  water,  and  the  like,  tea  was  put  down  as 
the  felicity  of  a  walking  "travail" — tea  plenty,  strong,  with 
enough  sugar,  made  in  a  tin  pint  cup;  thus  it  may  be  said 
the  walker  will  be  refreshed  and  grow  intimate  with  tea- 
leaves.  With  him  the  botany  must  go  too,  and  the  book  for 
pressing  flowers  (an  old  "Primo  Flauto"  of  his  father's),  and 
the  guide-book,  spy-glass,  and  measuring-tape.  Every  one 
who  has  carried  a  pack  up  a  mountain  knows  how  every 
fresh  ounce  tells.  He  would  run  up  the  steepest  place  as 
swiftly  as  if  he  were  on  smooth  land,  and  his  breath  never 
failed.  He  commended  every  party  to  carry  "a  junk  of  heavy 
cake"  with  plums  in  it,  having  found  by  long  experience  that 
after  toil  it  was  a  capital  refreshment. 

He  made  three  journeys  into  the  Maine  wilderness,  two 
from  Moosehead  Lake  in  canoes,  accompanied  by  Indians, 
another  to  Katahdin  Mountain.  These  taught  him  the  art 
of  camping  out;  and  he  could  construct  in  a  short  time  a 
convenient  camp  sufficient  for  permanent  occupancy.  His 
last  excursion  of  this  kind  was  to  Monadnoc  Mountain  in 
August,  1859.  He  spent  five  nights  in  camp  with  me,  having 
built  two  huts  to  get  varied  views.  On  a  walk  like  this  he 
always  carried  his  umbrella;  and  on  this  Monadnoc  trip, 
when  about  one  mile  from  the  station,  a  torrent  of  rain  came 
down,  the  day  being  previously  fine.  Without  his  well-used 
umbrella  his  books,  blankets,  maps,  and  provisions  would  all 
have  been  spoiled,  or  the  morning  lost  by  delay.  On  the 

[42] 


MANNERS 

mountain,  the  first  plateau  being  reached  perhaps  at  about 
3  P.M.,  in  a  thick,  rather  soaking  fog,  the  first  object  was  to 
camp  and  make  tea.  Flowers,  birds,  lichens,  and  the  rocks 
were  carefully  examined,  all  parts  of  the  mountain  visited, 
and  as  accurate  a  map  as  could  be  made  by  pocket-compass 
carefully  sketched  and  drawn  out,  in  the  five  days  spent 
there ;  with  notes  of  the  striking  aerial  phenomena,  inci 
dents  of  travel  and  natural  history.  Doubtless  he  directed 
such  work  with  a  view  to  writing  on  this  and  other  moun 
tains,  and  his  collections  were  of  course  in  his  mind.  Yet  all 
this  was  incidental  to  the  excursion  itself,  the  other  things 
collateral. 

The  capital  in  use  was  the  opportunity  of  the  wild,  free 
life,  the  open  air,  the  new  and  strange  sounds  by  night  and 
day,  the  odd  and  bewildering  rocks,  among  which  a  person 
can  be  lost  within  a  rod  of  camp;  the  strange  cries  of  visitors 
to  the  summit;  the  great  valley  over  to  Wachusett,  with  its 
thunder-storms  and  battles  in  the  cloud  (to  look  at,  not  fear) ; 
the  farmers1  back -yards  in  Jaffrey,  where  the  family  cotton 
can  be  seen  bleaching  on  the  grass,  but  no  trace  of  the 
pygmy  family;  the  rip  of  night-hawks  after  twilight,  putting 
up  dor-bugs,  and  the  dry,  soft  air  all  the  night;  the  lack  of 
dew  in  the  morning;  the  want  of  water,  a  pint  being  a  good 
deal, — these  and  similar  things  make  up  some  part  of  such 
an  excursion.  It  is  all  different  from  anything  else,  and 
would  be  so  if  you  went  a  hundred  times.  The  fatigue,  the 
blazing  sun,  the  face  getting  broiled,  the  pint  cup  never 
scoured,  shaving  unutterable;  your  stockings  dreary,  having 

[43] 


THOREAU 

taken  to  peat, — not  all  the  books  in  the  world,  as  Sancho 
says,  could  contain  the  adventures  of  a  week  in  camping. 

A  friendly  coincidence  happened  on  his  last  excursion 
(July,  1858),  to  the  White  Mountains.  Two  of  his  friends, 
Harrison  Blake  and  Theo.  Brown,  thought  they  might 
chance  upon  him  there;  and,  though  he  dreamed  little  of 
seeing  them,  he  left  a  note  at  the  Mountain  House  which 
said  where  he  was  going,  and  told  them  if  they  looked  "they 
would  see  the  smoke  of  his  fire."  This  came  to  be  true,  the 
brush  taking  the  flame,  and  a  smoke  rising  to  be  seen  over 
all  the  valley.  Meantime,  Thoreau,  in  leaping  from  one 
mossy  rock  to  another  (after  nearly  sliding  down  the  snow- 
crust  on  the  side  of  Tuckerman's  Ravine,  but  saved  by  dig 
ging  his  nails  into  the  snow),  had  fallen  and  severely  sprained 
his  foot.  Before  this,  he  had  found  the  Arnica  mollis,  a  plant 
famous  for  its  healing  properties;  but  he  preferred  the  ice- 
cold  water  of  the  mountain  stream,  into  which  he  boldly 
plunged  his  tortured  limb  to  reduce  the  swelling;  had  the 
tent  spread,  and  then,  the  rain  beginning  to  come  down, 
there  came  his  two  friends  down  the  mountain  as  well,  their 
outer  integuments  decimated  with  their  tramp  in  the  scrub. 
They  had  seen  the  smoke;  and  here  they  were  in  his  little 
tent  made  for  two,  the  rain  falling  all  the  while,  and  five 
full-grown  men  to  be  packed  in  for  five  days  and  nights. 
Thoreau  was  unable  to  move  on,  but  he  sat  and  entertained 
them  heartily. 

He  admired  the  rose-colored  linnaeas  lining  the  side  of  the 
narrow  horse-track  through  the  fir-scrub,  and  the  leopard- 

[44] 


MANNERS 

spotted  land  below  the  mountains.  He  had  seen  the  pines  in 
Fitzwilliam  in  a  primeval  wood-lot,  and  "their  singular 
beauty  made  such  an  impression  that  I  was  forced  to  turn 
aside  and  contemplate  them.  They  were  so  round  and  per 
pendicular  that  my  eyes  slid  off."  The  rose-breasted  gros 
beaks  sang  in  a  wonderful  strain  on  Mount  Lafayette.  He 
ascended  such  hills  as  Monadnoc  or  Saddle-back  Mountain 
by  his  own  path;  would  lay  down  his  map  on  the  summit 
and  draw  a  line  to  the  point  he  proposed  to  visit  below  (per 
haps  forty  miles  away  in  the  landscape),  and  set  off  bravely 
to  make  the  short-cut.  The  lowland  people  wondered  to  see 
him  scaling  the  heights  as  if  he  had  lost  his  way,  or  at  his 
"jumping  over  their  cow-yard  fences,"  asking  if  he  had  fallen 
from  the  clouds. 


[45  ] 


READING 


I  know  not'  is  one  word;  'I  know'  is  ten  words." 

CHINESE  PROVERB. 


CHAPTER     III 
READING 

THOREAU  considered  his  profession  to  be  literature,  and  his 
business  the  building  up  of  books  out  of  the  right  material, 
—  books  which  should  impress  the  reader  as  being  alive.  As 
he  loved  not  dead  birds,  so  neither  loved  he  dead  books;  he 
had  no  care  for  scattered  fragments  of  literature.  His  aim  was 
to  bring  his  life  into  the  shape  of  good  and  substantial  lit 
erary  expression;  and  to  this  end  he  armed  himself  with  all 
the  aids  and  appliances  usual  to  literature.  A  good  and  suf 
ficient  academic  and  college  training  had  made  him  a  Latin  | 
and  Greek  scholar,  with  good  knowledge  of  French,  and  some  | 
acquaintance  with  Italian,  Spanish,  and  German.  Allusion 
has  been  made  to  his  faithful  reading  of  English  poetry  at 
Harvard  College,  where  he  graduated  in  1837.  Besides  what 
are  usually  called  the  "old  English  poets,""  such  as  Chaucer, 
even  such  stout  backlogs  as  Davenant's  "Gondibert"  did  not 
discourage  him,  a  sagacious  and  resolute  reader.  If  there  was 
the  one  good  line,  he  took  it.  In  New  York  in  1843,  while 
residing  in  the  family  of  Mr.  William  Emerson,  he  extended 
these  English  and  Scotch  readings  at  the  great  libraries.  He 
neglected  no  culture,  left  nothing  undone  that  could  aid  him 
in  the  preparation  of  his  first  books,  the  " Week"  and  "Wai- 
den."  That  he  was  familiar  with  the  classics,  and  kept  up  the 
acquaintance,  is  shown  by  his  translations  from  Homer,  ^Es- 
chylus,  Pindar,  Anacreon,  Aristotle,  Pliny,  Cato,  Columella, 

[49] 


THOREAU 

and  other  ancient  authors.  His  "Prometheus  Bound,"  since  in 
cluded  in  his  posthumous  "Miscellanies,"  is  said  to  have  been 
reprinted  and  used  as  a  "pony"  at  Harvard  College;  his  ver 
sion  of  the  "Seven  against  Thebes"  may  have  disappeared. 
Homer  and  Virgil  were  his  favorites,  like  the  world^s ;  in  Eng 
lish,  Chaucer,  Milton,  Ossian,  the  Robin  Hood  Ballads;  the 
"Lycidas,"  never  out  of  his  mind,  for  he  had  the  habit,  more 
than  usual  among  scholars,  of  thinking  in  the  language  of 
another,  in  an  unstudied  way. 

Of  his  favorites,  he  has  written  a  pleasant  account  in  his 
"Week."  But  he  used  these  and  all  literature  as  aids,  and  did 
not  stop  in  a  book;  rarely  or  never  read  them  over.  His  read 
ing  was  done  with  a  pen  in  his  hand :  he  made  what  he  calls 
"Fact-books," — citations  which  concerned  his  studies.  He 
,had  no  favorite  among  modern  writers  save  Carlyle.  Stories, 
novels  (excepting  the  History  of  Froissart  and  the  grand  old 
Pelion  on  Ossa  of  the  Hindoo  Mythology),  he  did  not  read. 
His  East  Indian  studies  never  went  deep,  technically:  into 
the  philological  discussion  as  to  whether  ab,  ab,  is  Sanscrit, 
or  "what  is  Om?"  he  entered  not.  But  no  one  relished  the 
Bhagvat  Geeta  better,  or  the  good  sentences  from  the  Vishnu 
Purana.  He  loved  the  Laws  of  Menu,  the  Vishnu  Sarma,  Saadi, 
and  similar  books.  After  he  had  ceased  to  read  these  works, 
he  received  a  collection  of  them  as  a  present,  from  his  Eng 
lish  friend  Cholmondeley  in  1855.  Plato  and  Montaigne  and 
Goethe  were  all  too  slow  for  him:  the  hobbies  he  rode  dealt 
with  realities,  not  shadows,  and  he  philosophized  ab  initio. 
Metaphysics  was  his  aversion.  He  believed  and  lived  in  his 

[50] 


READING 

senses  loftily.  Speculations  on  the  special  faculties  of  the  mind, 
or  whether  the  Not  Me  comes  out  of  the  "I,"  or  the  All  out 
of  the  infinite  Nothing,  he  could  not  entertain.  Like  the 
Queen  of  Prussia,  he  had  heard  of  les  infiniments  petlts.  In  his 
way,  he  was  a  great  reader  and  eagerly  perused  books  of  ad 
venture,  travel,  or  fact;  and  never  could  frame  a  dearer  wish 
than  spending  the  winter  at  the  North  pole:  "could  eat  a 
fried  rat  with  a  relish,"  if  opportunity  commanded. 

The  "Week"  is  a  mine  of  quotations  from  good  authors, 
the  proof  of  careful  reading  and  right  selection.  Such  knotty 
writers  as  Quarles  and  Donne  here  find  a  place  in  lines  as 
fresh  and  sententious  as  the  fleetest  wits.  Here  we  have  the 
best  lines  from  many  of  the  most  remarkable  English  writers, 
and  all  the  best  lines  from  many  not  as  remarkable,  or  who 
only  exist  by  virtue  of  such  spare  passages.  Many  authors 
have  only  their  one  line  of  merit;  and  many  more  are  want 
ing  even  in  this.  Giles  and  Phineas  Fletcher  contain  but  a 
small  portion  of  glory  in  all  their  high-sounding  verse;  yet 
the  former  afforded  him  that  great  passage  from  his  "Christ's 
Victory  and  Triumph"  beginning, — 

{<  How  may  a  worm  that  crawls  along  the  dust 
Clamber  the  azure  mountains,  thrown  so  high?" 

as  well  as  that, — 

"  And  now  the  taller  sons  whom  Titan  warms 
Of  unshorn  mountains,  blown  with  easy  winds, 

Dandle  the  Morning's  childhood  in  their  arms, 
And  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines, 

[51] 


THOREAU 

The  under  corylets  did  catch  the  shines 
To  gild  their  leaves." 

From  Phineas  Fletcher's  "Purple  Island"  he  brings  a  splen 
did  tribute  to  the  Muses, — 

"By  them  went  Fido  marshal  of  the  field, 

Weak  was  his  mother  when  she  gave  him  day/'  etc. 

Two  stanzas  not  excelled  in  Milton  or  in  Shakespeare.  And 
what  can  be  more  subtle  than  these  lines  from  Quarles's  "  Di 
vine  Fancies'"? 

"He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a  grief, 
Because  he  wants  it,  hath  a  true  belief; 
And  he  that  grieves  because  his  grief's  so  small, 
Has  a  true  grief,  and  the  best  Faith  of  all." 

"The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  art." 

Then,  Samuel  Daniel,  another  example  of  admirable  Eng 
lish,  he  had  read  well;  and  his  "Musophilus"  "containing  a 
general  defence  of  learning"  was  a  favorite,  addressed  as  it 
was  "to  the  Right  Worthy  and  Judicious  Favourer  of  Virtue 
Mr.  Fulke  Greville" — a  patron  after  Thoreau's  own  heart, 
and  whom  he  would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  have  met. 
This  fine  stanza  is  from  that  poem,— 

" Men  find  that  action  is  another  thing 

From  what  they  in  discoursing  papers  read : 
The  world's  affairs  require  in  managing 

More  arts  than  those  wherein  you  clerks  proceed." 

I  quote  this  stanza  and  others  as  a  better  expression  of  Tho- 
reau's  opinion  on  men  and  things,  as  collected  and  approved 

[52] 


READING 

by  himself,  than  I  could  find  elsewhere.  And  this,  too,  is  from 
Daniel, — his  "Epistle  to  the  Lady  Margaret,  Countess  of 
Cumberland,11 — 

"Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man! " 

Which  perhaps  was  the  most  frequent  verse  he  repeated.  This 
is  followed  in  the  common-place  book,  by  that  opinion  from 
Quarles  (his  "Emblems,1'  Book  IV.  11)  which  represents  the 
result  of  many  queries: — 

"I  asked  the  Schoolman;  his  advice  was  free, 
But  scored  me  out  too  intricate  a  way." 

Quarles  was  always  a  favorite  of  Thoreau;  he  relished  the 
following  lines : — 

"  Be  wisely  worldly,  but  not  worldly  wise." 
"The  ill  that's  wisely  feared  is  half  withstood." 

' '  An  unrequested  star  did  gently  slide 

Before  the  wise  men  to  a  greater  light." 

f '  Lord,  if  my  cards  be  bad  yet  grant  me  skill 
To  play  them  wisely,  and  make  the  best  of  ill." 

The  astonishing  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  the  learned  Dr.  Donne, 
was  another  poet  whom  he  treated  with.  From  him  comes 
this  in  the  "Week,"— 

"  Although  we  with  celestial  bodies  move 
Above  the  earth, — the  earth  we  till  and  love." 

And  also, — 

[53] 


THOREAU 

"Why  Love  among  the  virtues  is  not  known, 
Is,  that  Love  is  them  all,  contract  in  one." 

Elsewhere  he  took  from  this  cabalistical  poet, — 
"Who  are  a  little  wise,  the  best  fools  be." 

"  Only  he  who  knows 
Himself,  knows  more." 

He  might  also,  in  alluding  (if  he  had  chosen  to  do  so)  to 
his  prevailing  magnanimity,  have  used  this  sententious  verse 
of  Donne:  — 

"For  me  (if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  I), 

Fortune  (if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  she), 
Spies  that  I  bear  so  well  her  tyranny, 

That  she  thinks  nothing  else  so  fit  for  me." 

Here  is  one  of  Thoreau's  early  favorites,  who  copied  it  so 
far  back  as  1837:- 

"O,  how  feeble  is  man's  power! 

That,  if  good  fortune  fall, 
Cannot  add  another  hour, 

Nor  a  lost  hour  recall ; 
But  come  bad  chance, 

And  we  add  to 't  our  strength, 
And  we  teach  it  art  and  length, 
Itself  o'er  us  t'  advance." 

In  Charles  Cotton,  the  friend  of  Izaak  Walton,  he  found  two 
or  three  bits  which  pleased  him;  one  of  them  in  the  "Week" 
gave  him  a  motto  for  "Morning."" 

" And  round  about  'Good  morrows'  fly, 
As  if  Day  taught  humanity." 

[54] 


READING 

Which  is  capital  morals.  But  another  motto  for  "Evening "is 
equally  fortunate  in  its  descriptive  rarity: — 

"A  very  little,  little  flock 
Shades  half  the  ground  that  it  would  stock, 
Whilst  the  small  stripling  following  them 
Appears  a  mighty  Polypheme." 

Virgil  would  have  appreciated  this  (Etjam  summa  procul, 
etc.)  and  Turner  the  painter  should  have  had  it.  And  though 
Ruskin,  his  critic,  has  fallen  on  Scott  and  Tennyson  for  pic 
turesque  description,  Turner  never  found  anything  better 
than  this  in  the  landscape  department.  Cotton  also  afforded 
the  fine  definition  of  Contentment, — 

"Thou  bravest  soul's  terrestrial  Paradise." 

Another  of  his  favorites  was  Michael  Drayton,  who  wrote 
something  about  the  English  rivers;  but  his  Sonnets  and 
other  pieces  are  (many  of  them)  in  the  best  Shakespeare  style. 
He  refers  to  Dray  ton's  Elegy,  "To  my  dearly  beloved  friend, 
Henry  Reynolds, — of  Poets  and  Poesy,"  where  he  says: — 

"Next  Marlowe,  bathed  in  the  Thespian  springs, 
Had  in  him  those  brave  transl  unary  things 
That  your  first  poets  had:  his  raptures  were 
All  air  and  fire,  which  made  his  verses  clear ; 
For  that  fine  madness  still  he  did  retain 
Which  rightly  should  possess  a  poet's  brain." 

Drummond's  Sonnet  "Icarus "pleased  him  with  its  stirring 

line, — 

"  For  still  the  shore  my  brave  attempt  resounds," 

and  was  hinted  at  in  "Walden."  In  hardly  any  instance  does 

[55] 


THOREAU 

Thoreau  give,  in  his  published  works,  the  author  for  his  verses. 
He  supposed  those  who  read  him  would  either  know  the 
poets  he  quoted,  or  else  admire  his  good  things  heartily 
enough,  without  knowing  on  what  bough  the  apple  grew  that 
made  the  tart.  Yet  few  persons  would  credit  Spenser  (in  the 
"Ruines  of  Rome")  with  the  modernness  of  these  lines:  — 

ef  Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament. 
And  dead  is  now  the  world's  sole  monument. 

With  her  own  weight  down-pressed  now  she  lies. 
And  by  her  heaps  her  hugeness  testifies." 

Or  that  Francis  Quarles,  in  his  "  Hieroglyphics  of  the  Life 
of  Man,"  could  be  thus  plain :  — 

11  And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen 

To  cobweb  every  green ; 
And  by  the  low-shorn  rowens  doth  appear 

The  fast  declining  year." 
Or  this: — 

"To  Athens  gowned  he  goes,  and  from  that  school 
Returns  unsped,  a  more  instructed  fool;" 

or  this,  from  the  same  Quarles,  which  (begging  Shakespeare's 
pardon)  might  have  been  done  by  Shakespeare, — the  account 
of  a  beggar,  from  the  "Emblems":  — 

"That  bold  adopts  each  house  he  views  his  own, 
Makes  every  purse  his  checquer,  and  at  pleasure 
Walks  forth  and  taxes  all  the  world,  like  Caesar." 

Ever  alive  to  distinction,  he  admired  that  verse  of  Habing- 
ton's, — 

[56] 


READING 

" Let's  set  so  just 

A  rate  on  knowledge,  that  the  world  may  trust 
The  poet's  sentence,  and  not  still  aver 
Each  art  is  to  itself  a  flatterer." 

The  poem  of  the  same  author,  with  that  nonpareil  title,  "Nox 
nocti  indicat  scientiam"  drew  the  Eskimo  race,— 

(<  Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice." 

He  hears  Daniel  again,  discoursing  of  learning, — 

"How  many  thousand  never  heard  the  name 
Of  Sidney  or  of  Spenser,  or  their  books ! 
And  yet,  brave  fellows,  and  presume  of  fame,  — 
And  seem  to  bear  down  all  the  world  with  looks." 

He  also  loved  William  Browne's  "Pastorals," — of  all  Eng 
land's  books,  one  richest  in  out-door  sympathies.  These  cita 
tions  may  serve  to  show  Thoreau's  taste  in  English,  which  I 
cannot  but  think  very  exquisite;  and  this  will  be  still  more 
of  account  as  George  Peele  says, — 

''When  Fame's  great  double  doors  fall  to,  and  shut." 

To  Thoreau  may  be  applied  what  John  Birkenhead  said  in 
his  tribute  to  Beaumont  the  dramatist, — 

"  Thy  ocean  fancy  knew  nor  banks  nor  dams ; 
We  ebb  down  dry  to  pebble  anagrams;" 

putting  the  word  "labor"  in  the  place  of  "fancy." 

He  valued  Homer  for  his  nature,  Virgil  for  his  beauty,  the 
Robin  Hood  Ballads  and  Chaucer  for  their  health,  Ossian  for 

[57] 


THOREAU 

his  grandeur,  Persius  for  his  philosophy,  Milton  for  his  ele 
gance.  Perhaps  the  "Lycidas"  was  his  favorite  short  poem;  at 
least  I  have  heard  it  most  often  from  his  mouth;  but  he  knew 
the  Robin  Hood  Ballads  remarkably  well. 

He  was  by  no  means  one  of  those  crotchety  persons  who 
believe,  because  they  set  up  Plato  or  Goethe  or  Shakespeare 
as  the  absolute  necessities  of  literary  worship,  that  all  other 
students  must  so  make  idols  of  them.  I  never  knew  him  say  a 
good  word  for  Plato,  and  I  fear  he  had  never  finished  Shake 
speare.  His  was  a  very  uncompleted  reading;  there  being 
with  him  a  pressure  of  engrossing  flowers,  birds,  snow-storms, 
swamps,  and  seasons.  He  had  no  favorites  among  the  French 
or  Germans  and  I  do  not  recall  a  modern  writer  except  Car- 
lyle  and  Ruskin  whom  he  valued  much.  In  fact,  the  pointed 
and  prismatic  style  now  so  common,  and  the  chopped-hay 
fashion  of  writing,  suited  not  with  his  homely,  long-staple 
vein.  For  novels,  stories,  and  such  matters,  he  was  devoid  of 
all  curiosity;  and  for  the  works  of  Dickens  had  a  hearty  con 
tempt.  Usually,  all  the  popular  books  were  sealed  volumes  to 
him.  But  no  labor  was  too  onerous,  no  material  too  costly, 
if  expended  on  the  right  enterprise.  His  working  up  the  In 
dians  corroborates  this. 

Everything  has  its  price.  These  books  form  a  library  by 
themselves.  Extracts  from  reliable  authorities  from  De  Bry  to 
poor  Schoolcraft,  with  the  early  plates  and  maps  accurately 
copied,  and  selections  from  travellers  the  world  over;  for  his 
notes  embraced  all  that  bears  on  his  "list  of  subjects ," — 
wherever  scalps,  wampum,  and  the  Great  Spirit  prevail, — in 

[58] 


READING 

all  uncivilized  people.  Indian  customs  in  Natick  are  savage 
customs  in  Brazil,  the  Sandwich  Islands,  or  Timbuctoo.  With 
the  Indian  vocabularies  he  was  familiar,  and  in  his  Maine  ex 
cursions  tested  his  knowledge  by  all  the  words  he  could  get 
from  the  savages  in  purls  naturalibus.  Personally  these  living 
red  men  were  not  charming;  and  he  would  creep  out  of  camp 
at  night  to  refresh  his  olfactories,  damped  with  uncivilized 
perfumes,  which  it  seems,  like  musquash  and  other  animals, 
they  enjoy.  After  the  toughest  day's  work,  when  even  his 
bones  ached,  the  Indians  would  keep  awake  till  midnight, 
talking  eternally  all  the  while.  They  performed  valiant  feats 
as  trencher-men,  "licked  the  platter  clean,"  and  for  all  an 
swer  to  many  of  his  questions  grunted;  which  did  not  dis 
courage  him,  as  he  could  grunt  himself.  Their  knowledge  of 
the  woods,  the  absolutisms  of  their  scent,  sight,  and  appetite, 
amazed  him.  He  says,  "There  is  always  a  slight  haze  or  mist 
in  the  brow  of  the  Indian."  He  read  and  translated  the  Jesuit 
relations  of  the  first  Canadian  missions,  containing  "the  com 
modities  and  discommodities"  of  the  Indian  life,  such  as  the 
roasting  of  a  fresh  parson.  He  read  that  romantic  book, 
"Faite  par  le  Sieur  de  la  Borde,"  upon  the  origin,  manners, 
customs,  wars,  and  voyages  of  the  Caribs,  who  were  the  In 
dians  of  the  Antilles  of  America;  how  these  patriots  will  sell 
their  beds  in  the  morning  (their  memories  too  short  for 
night),  and  in  their  heaven,  Ouicou,  the  Carib  beer  runs  all  the 
while.  The  children  eat  dirt  and  the  mothers  work.  If  the  dead 
man  own  a  negro,  they  bury  him  with  his  master  to  wait  on 
him  in  paradise,  and  despatch  the  doctor  to  be  sure  of  one 

[59] 


THOREAU 

in  the  other  state.  The  men  and  women  dress  alike,  and  they 
have  no  police  or  civility;  everybody  does  what  he  pleases. 

"Lo,  the  poor  Indian,  whose  untutored  mind 
Brews  beer  in  heaven,  and  drinks  it  for  mankind." 

POPE  [altered]. 

Another  faithful  reading  was  those  old  Roman  farmers, 
Cato  and  Varro,  and  musically  named  Columella,  for  whom  he 
had  a  liking.  He  is  reminded  of  them  by  seeing  the  farmers 
so  busy  in  the  fall  carting  out  their  compost.  "I  see  the 
farmer  now  on  every  side  carting  out  his  manure,  and 
sedulously  making  his  compost-heap,  or  scattering  it  over 
his  grass-ground  and  breaking  it  up  with  a  mallet,  and 
it  reminds  me  of  Gate's  advice.  He  died  150  years  before 
Christ.  Indeed,  the  farmer's  was  pretty  much  the  same  rou 
tine  then  as  now.  'Sterquilinium  magnum  stude  ut  habeas. 
Stercus  sedulo  conserva,  cum  exportatis  purgato  et  commi- 
nuito.  Per  autumnum  evehitoS  Study  to  have  a  great  dung- 
heap.  Carefully  preserve  your  dung.  When  you  carry  it  out, 
make  clean  work  of  it,  and  break  it  up  fine.  Carry  it  out 
during  the  autumn.'"  Just  such  directions  as  you  find  in  the 
Farmers'*  Almanac  to-day.  As  if  the  farmers  of  Concord 
were  obeying  Gate's  directions,  who  but  repeated  the  maxims 
of  a  remote  antiquity.  Nothing  can  be  more  homely  and 
suggestive  of  the  every-day  life  of  the  Roman  agriculturists, 
thus  supplying  the  usual  deficiencies  in  what  is  technically 
called  Roman  history;  i.e.9  revealing  to  us  the  actual  life 
of  the  Romans,  the  "how  they  got  their  living,"  and 
"what  they  did  from  day  to  day."  Rome  and  the  Romans 

[60] 


READING 

commonly  are  a  piece  of  rhetoric,  but  we  have  here  their 
"New  England  Farmer,11  or  the  very  manual  those  Roman 
farmers  read,  as  fresh  as  a  dripping  dishcloth  from  a  Roman 
kitchen. 

His  study  of  old  writers  on  Natural  History  was  careful: 
Aristotle,  ^Elian,  and  Theophrastus  he  sincerely  entertained, 
and  found  from  the  latter  that  neither  the  weather  nor  its 
signs  had  altered  since  his  day.  Pliny^s  magnum  opus  was  his 
last  reading  in  this  direction,  a  work  so  valuable  to  him,  with 
the  authors  just  named,  that  he  meant  probably  to  translate 
and  write  on  the  subject  as  viewed  by  the  ancients.  As  illus 
trations,  he  carefully  noted  many  facts  from  modern  travel 
lers,  whose  writing  hatches  Jack-the-Giant-Killers  as  large 
as  Pliny^s.  He  observed  that  Aristotle  was  furnished  by  the 
king  with  elephants  and  other  creatures  for  dissection  and 
study:  his  observations  on  the  habits  of  fish  and  their  nests 
especially  interested  Thoreau,  an  expert  in  spawn.  In  con 
tinuing  this  line  of  study,  he  was  aided  by  the  perusal  of  St. 
Pierre,  Gerard,  Linnaeus,  and  earlier  writers.  The  "Studies  of 
Nature"  he  admired,  as  written  with  enthusiasm  and  spirit, 
— qualities  in  his  view  essential  to  all  good  writing.  The  old 
English  botanist  pleased  him  by  his  affectionate  interest  in 
plants,  with  something  quaint,  like  Evelyn,  Tusser,  and  Wal 
ton.  Recent  scientific  pate-de-foie-gras — a  surfeit  of  micro 
scope  and  "dead  words  with  a  tail" — he  valued  for  what  it 
is  worth — the  stuffing.  For  the  Swede,  his  respect  was  tran 
scendent.  There  is  no  better  explanation  of  his  love  for  bot 
any  than  the  old — "Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field, how  they 

[61  ] 


THOREAU 

grow ;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin :  and  yet  I  say  unto 
you,  that  even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like 
one  of  these."  His  pleasant  company,  during  so  many  days  of 
every  year,  he  wished  he  was  better  acquainted  with.  The 
names  and  classes  change,  the  study  of  the  lovely  flower  per 
sists.  He  wished  to  know  willow  and  grass  and  sedge,  and 
there  came  always  with  the  new  year  the  old  wish  renewed: 
a  carex,  a  salix,  kept  the  family  secret. 


[62] 


NATURE 


"  For  this  present,  hard 
Is  the  fortune  of  the  bard 
Born  out  of  time." 

EMERSON. 


CHAPTER     IV 

NATURE 

His  habit  was  to  go  abroad  a  portion  of  each  day,  to  fields 
or  woods  or  the  Concord  River.  "I  go  out,"  he  said,  "to  see 
what  I  have  caught  in  my  traps  which  I  set  for  facts."  He 
looked  to  fabricate  an  epitome  of  creation,  and  give  us  a 
homoeopathy  of  Nature.  During  many  years  he  used  the  after 
noon  for  walking,  and  usually  set  forth  about  half-past  two, 
returning  at  half -past  five;  this  (three  hours)  was  the  average 
length  of  his  walk.  As  he  got  over  the  ground  rapidly,  if  de 
sirable  (his  step  being  very  long  for  so  short  a  man),  he  had 
time  enough  to  visit  all  the  ordinary  points  of  interest  in  his 
neighborhood.  In  these  walks,  two  things  he  must  have  from 
his  tailor:  his  clothes  must  fit,  and  the  pockets,  especially, 
must  be  made  with  reference  to  his  out-door  pursuits.  They 
must  accommodate  his  note-book  and  spy -glass;  and  so  their 
width  and  depth  was  regulated  by  the  size  of  the  note-book. 
It  was  a  cover  for  some  folded  papers,  on  which  he  took 
his  out-of-door  notes ;  and  this  was  never  omitted,  rain  or 
shine.  It  was  his  invariable  companion,  and  he  acquired  great 
skill  in  conveying  by  a  few  lines  or  strokes  a  long  story,  which 
in  his  written  Journal  might  occupy  pages.  Abroad,  he  used 
the  pencil,  writing  but  a  few  moments  at  a  time,  during  the 
walk;  but  into  the  note-book  must  go  all  measurements  with 
the  foot-rule  which  he  always  carried,  or  the  surveyor's  tape 
that  he  often  had  with  him.  Also  all  observations  with  his  spy- 

[65] 


THOREAU 

glass  (another  invariable  companion  for  years),  all  conditions 
of  plants,  spring,  summer,  and  fall,  the  depth  of  snows,  the 
strangeness  of  the  skies, — all  went  down  in  this  note-book. 
To  his  memory  he  never  trusted  for  a  fact,  but  to  the  page 
and  the  pencil,  and  the  abstract  in  the  pocket,  not  the  Jour 
nal.  I  have  seen  bits  of  this  note-book,  but  never  recognized 
any  word  in  it;  and  I  have  read  its  expansion  in  the  Journal, 
in  many  pages,  of  that  which  occupied  him  but  five  minutes 
to  write  in  the  field.  "Have  you  written  up  your  notes  in 
your  Journal?"  was  one  of  his  questions.  Such  was  the  char 
acter  of  his  mind, — to  make  what  is  called  little  become 
grand  and  noble,  and  thus  to  dignify  life.  "  To  have  some  one 
thing  to  do,  and  do  it  perfectly," — many  times  have  I  heard 
this  maxim  for  students  fall  from  his  lips. 

In  his  Journal  for  November  9,  1851,  I  found  this  entry 
describing  an  incident  which  I  could  recall:  "In  our  walks, 
Channing  takes  out  his  note-book  sometimes,  and  tries  to 
write  as  I  do,  but  all  in  vain.  He  soon  puts  it  up  again,  or 
contents  himself  with  scrawling  some  sketch  of  the  landscape. 
Observing  me  still  scribbling,  he  will  say  that  he  confines  him 
self  to  the  ideal, — purely  ideal  remarks, — he  leaves  the  facts 
to  me.  Sometimes  he  will  say,  a  little  petulantly, '  I  am  univer 
sal  ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  particular  and  definite/  " 

The  particular  and  definite  were  much  to  Thoreau.  His 
pockets  were  large  to  hold  and  keep  not  only  his  implements, 
but  the  multitude  of  objects  which  he  brought  home  from 
his  walks;  objects  of  all  kinds, — pieces  of  wood  or  stone, 
lichens,  seeds,  nuts,  apples,  or  whatever  he  had  found  for  his 

[66] 


NATURE 

uses.  For  he  was  a  vigorous  collector,  never  omitting  to  get 
and  keep  every  possible  thing  in  his  direction  of  study. 

He  did  not  walk  with  any  view  to  health,  or  exercise,  or 
amusement.  His  diet  was  spare  enough  to  have  been  digested 
if  he  had  never  stirred  an  inch;  usually  thin  and  in  capital 
health, — as  elastic  as  an  Indian, — he  needed  no  artificial 
prop  to  keep  him  vital;  and  he  might  have  slept,  as  Harrison 
says  of  the  old  English,  with  a  block  of  wood  for  a  pillow. 
No,  the  walk,  with  him,  was  for  work;  it  had  a  serious  pur 
pose;  witness  the  thirty  volumes  of  Journals  left  by  him, — 
and  only  going  back  to  1850.  As  I  walk  for  recreation  and 
variety,  after  reading,  these  walks  of  Thoreau  were  something 
aside  from  my  habits;  and,  unlike  my  own,  had  a  local  aim. 
While  he  was  not,  in  the  usual  sense,  a  scientific  man, — his 
talent  (as  he  always  thought  and  said)  being  literary, — he  was, 
though  in  no  narrow  view,  a  naturalist.  The  idea  he  conceived 
was,  that  he  might,  upon  a  small  territory, — such  a  space  as 
that  filled  by  the  town  of  Concord, — construct  a  chart  or 
calendar  which  should  chronicle  the  phenomena  of  the  seasons 
in  their  order,  and  give  their  general  average  for  the  year. 
This  was  only  one  of  the  various  plans  he  had  in  view  during 
his  walks;  but  his  habit  of  mind  demanded  complete  accuracy, 
the  utmost  finish,  and  that  nothing  should  be  taken  on  hear 
say;  believing  that  Nature  would  only  so  in  perfection,  and 
truly  could  no  otherwise  be  reported.  It  is  obvious  how  vast 
a  work  this  is,  and  that  he  could  only  have  completed  some 
portion  of  it  in  a  long  lifetime.  His  calendar  embraced  cold 
and  heat,  rain  and  snow,  ice  and  water;  he  had  his  gauges 

[67] 


THOREAU 

on  the  river,  which  he  consulted  winter  and  summer;  he  knew 
the  temperature  of  all  the  springs  in  the  town;  he  measured 
the  snows  when  remarkable.  All  unusual  changes  of  weather, 
with  novel  skies,  storms,  views,  find  place  in  his  notes. 

All  must  get  included.  "No  fruit  grows  in  vain.  The  red 
squirrel  harvests  the  fruit  of  the  pitch-pine."  He  wanted 
names.  "I  never  felt  easy  till  I  got  the  name  for  the  Andro- 
pogon  scoparius  (a  grass) :  I  was  not  acquainted  with  my  beau 
tiful  neighbor,  but  since  I  knew  it  was  the  Andropogon  I 
have  felt  more  at  home  in  my  native  fields."  He  had  no  trace 
of  that  want  of  memory  which  infests  some  amiable  beings. 
He  loved  the  world  and  could  not  pass  a  berry,  nor  fail  to 
ask  his  question,  I  fear — leading.  Men  who  had  seen  the 
partridge  drum,  caught  the  largest  pickerel,  and  eaten  the 
most  swamp  apples,  did  him  service;  and  he  long  frequented 
one  who,  if  not  a  sinner,  was  no  saint, — Goodwin  the  gunner. 
The  Farmer  who  could  find  him  a  hawk's  egg  or  give  him  a 
fisher's  foot,  he  would  wear  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  whether 
called  Jacob  Farmer  or  not.  He  admired  our  toil-crucified 
farmers,  conditioned  like  granite  and  pine,  slow  and  silent  as 
the  seasons, — "like  the  sweetness  of  a  nut,  like  the  tough 
ness  of  hickory.  He,  too,  is  a  redeemer  for  me.  How  superior 
actually  to  the  faith  he  professes !  He  is  not  an  office-seeker. 
What  an  institution,  what  a  revelation  is  a  man !  We  are  wont 
foolishly  to  think  the  creed  a  man  professes  a  more  significant 
fact  than  the  man  he  is.  It  matters  not  how  hard  the  con 
ditions  seemed,  how  mean  the  world,  for  a  man  is  a  preva 
lent  force  and  a  new  law  himself.  He  is  a  system  whose  law 
[  68  ] 


NATURE 

/is  to  be  observed.  The  old  farmer  still  condescends  to  counte 
nance  this  nature  and  order  of  things.  It  is  a  great  encourage 
ment  that  an  honest  man  makes  this  world  his  abode.  He  rides 
on  the  sled  drawn  by  oxen,  world-wise,  yet  comparatively  so 
young  as  if  he  had  not  seen  scores  of  winters.  The  farmer 
spoke  to  me,  I  can  swear,  clear,  cold,  moderate  as  the  snow 
where  he  treads.  Yet  what  a  faint  impression  that  encounter 
may  make  on  me  after  all.  Moderate,  natural,  true,  as  if  he 
were  made  of  stone,  wood,  snow."1 

No  hour  tolled  on  the  great  world-horologe  must  be 
omitted,  no  movement  of  the  second-hand  of  this  patent 
lever  that  is  so  full-jewelled.  He  wrote, 

fe  Behold  these  flowers,  let  us  be  up  with  time, 
Not  dreaming  of  three  thousand  years  ago." 

He  drinks  in  the  meadow,  at  Second  Division  Brook;  "then 
sits  awhile  to  watch  its  yellowish  pebbles,  and  the  cress  in  it 
and  the  weeds.  The  ripples  cover  its  surface  as  a  network, 
and  are  faithfully  reflected  on  the  bottom.  In  some  places, 
the  sun  reflected  from  ripples  on  a  flat  stone  looks  like  a 
golden  comb.  The  whole  brook  seems  as  busy  as  a  loom :  it  is 
a  woof  and  warp  of  ripples;  fairy  fingers  are  throwing  the 
shuttle  at  every  step,  and  the  long,  waving  brook  is  the  fine 
product.  The  water  is  so  wonderfully  clear, — to  have  a  hut 
here  and  a  foot-path  to  the  brook.  For  roads,  I  think  that 
a  poet  cannot  tolerate  more  than  a  foot-path  through  the 
field.  That  is  wide  enough,  and  for  purposes  of  winged  poesy 
suffices.  I  would  fain  travel  by  a  foot-path  round  the  world." 
1  From  the  Journal  of  1851. 

[69] 


THOREAU 

So  might  he  say  in  that  mood,  yet  think  the  wider  wood- 
path  was  not  bad,  as  two  could  walk  side  by  side  in  it  in  the 
ruts, — ay,  and  one  more  in  the  horse-track.  He  loved  in 
the  summer  to  lay  up  a  stock  of  these  experiences  "for  the 
winter,  as  the  squirrel,  of  nuts, — something  for  conversation 
in  winter  evenings.  I  love  to  think  then  of  the  more  distant 
walks  I  took  in  summer.  Might  I  not  walk  further  till  I  hear 
new  crickets,  till  their  creak  has  acquired  some  novelty  as  if 
they  were  a  new  species  whose  habitat  I  had  discovered?" 

Night  and  her  stars  were  not  neglected  friends.  He  saw 

"The  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon/' 

and  sings  in  this  strain: — 

"My  dear,  my  dewy  sister,  let  thy  rain  descend  on  me.  I 
not  only  love  thee,  but  I  love  the  best  of  thee;  that  is  to 
love  thee  rarely.  I  do  not  love  thee  every  day,  commonly 
I  love  those  who  are  less  than  thee;  I  love  thee  only  on  great 
days.  Thy  dewy  words  feed  me  like  the  manna  of  the  morn 
ing.  I  am  as  much  thy  sister  as  thy  brother;  thou  art  as 
much  my  brother  as  my  sister.  It  is  a  portion  of  thee  and  a 
portion  of  me  which  are  of  kin.  Thou  dost  not  have  to  woo 
me.  I  do  not  have  to  woo  thee.  O  my  sister!  O  Diana!  thy 
tracks  are  on  the  eastern  hill.  Thou  merely  passed  that  way. 
I,  the  hunter,  saw  them  in  the  morning  dew.  My  eyes  are 
the  hounds  that  pursued  thee.  Ah,  my  friend,  what  if  I  do 
not  know  thee?  I  hear  thee.  Thou  canst  speak;  I  cannot; 
I  fear  and  forget  to  answer;  I  am  occupied  with  hearing.  I 

[70] 


NATURE 

awoke  and  thought  of  thee,  thou  wast  present  to  my  mind. 
How  earnest  thou  there?  Was  I  not  present  to  thee  like 
wise?" 

Thou  couldst  look  down  with  pity  on  that  mound, — some 
silver  beams  faintly  raining  through  the  old  locust  boughs, 
for  thy  lover,  thy  Endymion,  is  watching  there!  He  was 
abroad  with  thee  after  the  midnight  mass  had  tolled,  and 
the  consecrated  dust  of  yesterdays  "each  in  its  narrow  cell 
for  ever  laid,"  which  he  lived  to  hive  in  precious  vases  for 
immortality, — tales  of  natural  piety,  bound  each  to  each. 
He  said  once 

"Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 
And  only  now  my  prime  of  life. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold, 
Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  bought, 
Which  wooed  me  young  and  wooes  me  old, 
And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought." 

Thus  conversant  was  he  with  great  Nature.  Perchance  he 
reached  the  wildness  for  which  he  longed,  "a  nature  which 
I  cannot  put  my  foot  through,  woods  where  the  wood- thrush 
for  ever  sings,  where  the  hours  are  early  morning  ones  and 
the  day  is  for  ever  improved,  where  I  might  have  a  fertile 
unknown  for  a  soil  about  me." 

Always  suggestive  (possibly  to  some,  unattractive)  themes 
lay  about  him  in  this  Nature.  Even  "along  the  wood-paths, 
wines  of  all  kinds  and  qualities,  of  noblest  vintages,  are 
bottled  up  in  the  skins  of  countless  berries,  for  the  taste  of 
men  and  animals.  To  men  they  seem  offered,  not  so  much 

[71  ] 


THOREAU 

for  food  as  for  sociality,  that  they  may  picnic  with  Nature. 
Diet  drinks,  cordial  wines,  we  pluck  and  eat  in  remembrance 
of  her.  It  is  a  sacrament,  a  communion.  The  not  Forbidden 
Fruits,  which  no  Serpent  tempts  us  to  taste." 

I  never  heard  him  complain  that  the  plants  were  too 
many,  the  hours  too  long.  As  he  said  of  the  crow,  "If  he 
has  voice,  I  have  ears."  The  flowers  are  furnished,  and  he  can 
bring  his  note-book. 

"As  if  by  secret  sight,  he  knew 
Where,  in  far  fields,  the  orchis  grew." 

He  obeyed  the  plain  rule, — 

"Take  the  goods  the  gods  provide  thee/' 

and  having  neither  ship  nor  magazine,  gun  nor  javelin, 
horse  nor  hound,  had  conveyed  to  him  a  property  in  many 
things  equal  to  the  height  of  all  his  ambition.  What  he  did 
not  covet  was  not  forced  on  his  attention.  What  he  desired 
lay  at  his  feet.  The  breath  of  morning  skies  with  the  saffron 
of  Aurora  beautifully  dight;  children  of  the  air  wafting  the 
smiles  of  spring  from  the  vexed  Bermoothes;  fragrant  life- 
everlasting  in  the  dry  pastures;  blue  forget-me-nots  along 
the  brook, — were  his:  ice  piled  its  shaggy  enamel  for  him, 
where  coral  cranberries  yesterday  glowed  in  the  grass;  and 
forests  whispered  loving  secrets  in  his  ear.  For  is  not  the 
earth  kind? 

"We  are  rained  and  snowed  on  with  gems.  I  confess  that 
I  was  a  little  encouraged,  for  I  was  beginning  to  believe 
that  Nature  was  poor  and  mean,  and  I  now  was  convinced 

[72] 


NATURE 

that  she  turned  off  as  good  work  as  ever.  What  a  world  we 
live  in!  Where  are  the  jewellers'  shops?  There  is  nothing 
handsomer  than  a  snow-flake  and  a  dew-drop.  I  may  say  that 
the  Maker  of  the  world  exhausts  his  skill  with  each  snow- 
flake  and  dew-drop  that  He  sends  down.  We  think  that  the 
one  mechanically  coheres,  and  that  the  other  simply  flows 
together  and  falls;  but  in  truth  they  are  the  product  of  en 
thusiasm,  the  children  of  an  ecstasy,  finished  with  the  artist's 
utmost  skill." 

.  .  .  "The  first  humble-bee,  that  prince  of  hummers, — he 
follows  after  flowers.  To  have  your  existence  depend  on 
flowers,  like  the  bee  and  humming-birds.  ...  I  expect  that 
the  lichenist  will  have  the  keenest  relish  for  Nature  in  her 
every-day  mood  and  dress.  He  will  have  the  appetite  of  the 
worm  that  never  dies,  of  the  grub.  This  product  of  the  bark 
is  the  essence  of  all  times.  The  lichenist  loves  the  tripe  of  the 
rock,  that  which  eats  and  digests  the  rock:  he  eats  the  eater. 
A  rail  is  the  fattest  and  sleekest  of  coursers  for  him.  .  .  .  The 
blue  curls  and  fragrant  everlasting,  with  their  ripening  aroma, 
show  themselves  now  pushing  up  on  dry  fields,  bracing  to  the 
thought;  I  need  not  smell  the  calamint, — it  is  a  balm  to  my 
mind  to  remember  its  fragrance.  The  pontederia  is  in  its 
prime,  alive  with  butterflies, — yellow  and  others.  I  see  its 
tall  blue  spikes  reflected  beneath  the  edge  of  the  pads  on  each 
side,  pointing  down  to  a  heaven  beneath  as  well  as  above. 
Earth  appears  but  a  thin  crust  or  pellicle. 

"It  is  a  leaf, — that  of  the  green-briar, — for  poets  to  sing 
about :  it  excites  me  to  a  sort  of  autumnal  madness.  They  are 

[73] 


THOREAU 

leaves  for  satyrs  and  fauns  to  make  their  garlands  of.  My 
thoughts  break  out  like  them,  spotted  all  over,  yellow  and 
green  and  brown, — the  freckled  leaf.  Perhaps  they  should 
be  poison  to  be  thus  spotted.  ...  I  have  now  found  all  the 
Hawk- weeds.  Singular  are  these  genera  of  plants, — plants 
manifestly  related,  yet  distinct.  They  suggest  a  history  to 
nature,  a  natural  history  in  a  new  sense.  .  .  .  Any  anomaly 
in  vegetation  makes  Nature  seem  more  real  and  present  in 
her  working,  as  the  various  red  and  yellow  excrescences  on 
young  oaks.  I  am  affected  as  if  it  were  a  different  nature  that 
produced  them.  As  if  a  poet  were  born,  who  had  designs  in 
his  head.  ...  I  perceive  in  the  Norway  cinque-foil  (Potentilla 
Norvegica),  now  nearly  out  of  blossom,  that  the  alternate  six 
leaves  of  the  calyx  are  closing  over  the  seeds  to  protect  them. 
This  evidence  of  forethought,  this  simple  reflection,  in  a 
double  sense  of  the  term,  in  this  flower  is  affecting  to  me,  as 
if  it  said  to  me,  'Not  even  when  I  have  blossomed  and  have 
lost  my  painted  petals,  and  am  preparing  to  die  down  to  its 
root,  do  I  forget  to  fall  with  my  arms  around  my  babe,  faith 
ful  to  the  last,  that  the  infant  may  be  found  preserved  in 
the  arms  of  the  frozen  mother.'  There  is  one  door  closed  of  the 
closing  year.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  be  contemporary  with  the 
cinque-foil.  May  I  perform  my  part  as  well!  We  love  to  see 
Nature  fruitful  in  whatever  kind.  I  love  to  see  the  acorns 
plenty  on  the  scrub-oaks,  ay,  and  the  night-shade  berries.  It 
assures  us  of  her  vigor,  and  that  she  may  equally  bring  forth 
fruits  which  we  prize.  I  love  to  see  the  potato-balls  numer 
ous  and  large,  as  I  go  through  a  low  field;  the  plant  thus 

[74] 


NATURE 

bearing  fruit  at  both  ends,  saying  ever  and  anon,  'Not  only 
these  tubers  I  offer  you  for  the  present,  but  if  you  will 
have  new  varieties  (if  these  do  not  satisfy  you),  plant  these 
seeds,  fruit  of  the  strong  soil,  containing  potash;  the  vin 
tage  is  come,  the  olive  is  ripe.  Why  not  for  my  coat-of-arms, 
for  device,  a  drooping  cluster  of  potato-balls  in  a  potato 
field?' 

"I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude, 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year." 

These  glimpses  at  the  life  of  the  lover  of  Nature  admonish 
us  of  the  richness,  the  satisfactions  in  his  unimpoverished 
districts.  Man  needs  an  open  mind  and  a  pure  purpose,  to 
become  receptive.  His  interest  in  animals  equalled  that  in 
flowers.  At  one  time  he  carried  his  spade,  digging  in  the 
galleries  and  burrows  of  field-mice.  "They  run  into  their 
holes,  as  if  they  had  exploded  before  your  eyes."  Many  voy 
ages  he  made  in  cold  autumn  days  and  winter  walks  on  the 
ice,  to  examine  the  cabins  of  the  muskrat  and  discover  pre 
cisely  how  and  of  what  they  were  built, — the  suite  of  rooms 
always  damp,  yet  comfortable  for  the  household,  dressed  in 
their  old-fashioned  waterproofs.  He  respected  the  skunk  as  a 
human  being  in  a  very  humble  sphere. 

In  his  western  tour  of  1861,  when  he  went  to  Minnesota 
and  found  the  crab-apple  and  native  Indians,  he  pleased  him 
self  with  a  new  friend, — the  gopher  with  thirteen  stripes. 
Rabbits,  woodchucks,  red,  gray,  and  "chipmunk"  squirrels,  he 
knew  by  heart ;  the  fox  never  came  amiss.  A  Canada  lynx  was 

[75] 


THOREAU 

killed  in  Concord,  whose  skin  he  eagerly  obtained  and  pre 
served.  It  furnished  a  proof  of  wildness  intact,  and  the  nine 
lives  of  a  wildcat.  He  mused  on  the  change  of  habit  in  do 
mestic  animals,  and  recites  a  porcine  epic,  — the  adventures 
of  a  fanatic  pig.  He  was  a  debtor  to  the  cows  like  other 
walkers. 

"When  you  approach  to  observe  them,  they  mind  you  just 
enough.  How  wholesome  and  clean  their  clear  brick  red!  No 
doubt  man  impresses  his  own  character  on  the  beasts  which 
he  tames  and  employs.  They  are  not  only  humanized,  but 
they  acquire  his  particular  human  nature.  .  .  .  The  farmer 
acts  on  the  ox,  and  the  ox  reacts  on  the  farmer.  They  do  not 
meet  half  way,  it  is  true;  but  they  do  meet  at  a  distance  from 
the  centre  of  each,  proportionate  to  each  one's  intellectual 
power." 

Let  us  hasten  to  his  lovely  idyl  of  the  "Beautiful  Heifer": — 
"One  more  confiding  heifer,  the  fairest  of  the  herd,  did  by 
degrees  approach  as  if  to  take  some  morsel  from  our  hands, 
while  our  hearts  leaped  to  our  mouths  with  expectation  and 
delight.  She  by  degrees  drew  near  with  her  fair  limbs  (pro 
gressive),  making  pretence  of  browsing;  nearer  and  nearer, 
till  there  was  wafted  to  us  the  bovine  fragrance, — cream  of 
all  the  dairies  that  ever  were  or  will  be:  and  then  she  raised 
her  gentle  muzzle  towards  us,  and  snuffed  an  honest  recogni 
tion  within  hand's  reach.  I  saw  it  was  possible  for  his  herd 
to  inspire  with  love  the  herdsman.  She  was  as  delicately  fea 
tured  as  a  hind.  Her  hide  was  mingled  white  and  fawn  color, 
and  on  her  muzzle's  tip  there  was  a  white  spot  not  bigger 

[76] 


NATURE 

than  a  daisy;  and  on  her  side  turned  toward  me,  the  map  of 
Asia  plain  to  see.1 

"Farewell,  dear  heifer!  Though  thou  forgettest  me,  my 
prayer  to  heaven  shall  be  that  thou  mayst  not  forget  thyself. 
There  was  a  whole  bucolic  in  her  snuff.  I  saw  her  name  was 
Sumac.  And  by  the  kindred  spots  I  knew  her  mother,  more 
sedate  and  matronly  with  full-grown  bag,  and  on  her  sides 
was  Asia  great  and  small,  the  plains  of  Tartary,  even  to  the 
pole;  while  on  her  daughter's  was  Asia  Minor.  She  was  not 
disposed  to  wanton  with  the  herdsman.  And  as  I  walked  she 
followed  me,  and  took  an  apple  from  my  hand,  and  seemed 
to  care  more  for  the  hand  than  the  apple.  So  innocent  a  face 
as  I  have  rarely  seen  on  any  creature,  and  I  have  looked  in 
the  face  of  many  heifers.  And  as  she  took  the  apple  from  my 
hand  I  caught  the  apple  of  her  eye.  She  smelled  as  sweet  as 
the  clethra  blossom.  There  was  no  sinister  expression.  And 
for  horns,  though  she  had  them,  they  were  so  well  disposed 
in  the  right  place,  but  neither  up  nor  down,  I  do  not  now 
remember  she  had  any.  No  horn  was  held  towards  me." 
1*  Seeing  a  flock  of  turkeys,  the  old  faintly  gobbling,  the 
half-grown  young  peeping,  they  suggest  a  company  of  "tur 
key-men."  He  loves  a  cricket  or  a  bee:  — 

"As  I  went  through  the  Deep  Cut  before  sunrise  [August 
£3,  1851],  I  heard  one  or  two  early  humble-bees  come  out  on 
the  damp  sandy  bank,  whose  low  hum  sounds  like  distant 
horns  from  far  in  the  horizon,  over  the  woods.  It  was  long 

lln  much  that  Mr.  Thoreau  wrote,  there  was  a  philological  side, — this 
needs  to  be  thoughtfully  considered,   w.  E.  c. 

[77] 


THOREAU 

before  I  detected  the  bees  that  made  it, — so  far-away  mu 
sical  it  sounded,  like  the  shepherds  in  some  distant  eastern 
vale,  greeting  the  king  of  day.  [September  o.]  Why  was  there 
never  a  poem  on  the  cricket?  Its  creak  seems  to  me  to  be  one 
of  the  most  obvious  and  prominent  facts  in  the  world,  and 
the  least  heeded.  In  the  report  of  a  man's  contemplations  I 
look  to  see  something  answering  to  this  sound, — so  serene 
and  cool,  the  iced-cream  of  song.  It  is  modulated  shade: 
the  incessant  cricket  of  the  fall  is  heard  in  the  grass,  chirp 
ing  from  everlasting  to  everlasting;  no  transient  love-strain, 
hushed  when  the  incubating  season  is  past.  They  creak  hard 
now,  after  sunset;  no  word  will  spell  it.  The  humming  of  a 
dor-bug  drowns  all  the  noise  of  the  village.  So  roomy  is  the 
universe." 

No  class  of  creatures  he  found  better  than  birds.  With 
these  mingled  his  love  for  sound:  "Listen  to  music  reli 
giously,  as  if  it  were  the  last  strain  you  might  hear.  Sugar  is 
not  as  sweet  to  the  palate  as  sound  to  the  healthy  ear.  Is  not 
all  music  a  hum  more  or  less  divine?"  His  concert  was  the 
bluebird,  the  robin,  and  song-spaijow,  melting  into  joy  after 
the  silent  winter.  "Do  you  know  on  what  bushes  a  little 
peace,  faith,  and  contentment  grow?  Go  a-berrying  early  and 
late  after  them."  The  color  of  the  bluebird  seemed  to  him 
"as  if  he  carried  the  sky  on  his  back.  And  where  are  gone  the 
bluebirds  whose  warble  was  wafted  to  me  so  lately  like  a  blue 
wavelet  through  the  air,  warbling  so  innocently  to  inquire  if 
any  of  its  mates  are  within  call?  The  very  grain  of  the  air 
seems  to  have  undergone  a  change,  and  is  ready  to  split  into 

[78] 


NATURE 

the  form  of  the  bluebird's  warble.  The  air  over  these  fields  is 
a  foundry  full  of  moulds  for  casting  bluebirds'1  warbles.  Me- 
thinks  if  it  were  visible  or  I  could  cast  up  some  fine  dust 
which  would  betray  it,  it  would  take  a  corresponding  shape."" 


[79] 


LITERARY    THEMES 


"No  tidings  come  to  thee 
Not  of  thy  very  neighbors, 
That  dwellen  almost  at  thy  doors, 
Thou  hearest  neither  that  nor  this ; 
For  when  thy  labor  all  done  is, 
And  hast  made  all  thy  reckonings, 
Instead  of  rest  and  of  new  things, 
Thou  goest  home  to  thy  house  anon." 

CHAUCER. 

"To  hill  and  cloud  his  face  was  known, — 
It  seemed  the  likeness  of  their  own." 

EMERSON. 

"His  short  parenthesis  of  life  was  sweet." 

STORER'S  LIFE  or  WOLSEY. 


CHAPTER    V 
LITERARY    THEMES 

44  MEN  commonly  exaggerate  the  theme.  Some  themes  they 
think  are  significant,  and  others  insignificant.  I  feel  that  my 
life  is  very  homely,  my  pleasures  very  cheap.  Joy  and  sorrow, 
success  and  failure,  grandeur  and  meanness,  and  indeed  most 
words  in  the  English  language,  do  not  mean  for  me  what 
they  do  for  my  neighbors.  I  see  that  my  neighbors  look  with 
compassion  on  me,  that  they  think  it  is  a  mean  and  unfortu 
nate  destiny  which  makes  me  to  walk  in  these  fields  and 
woods  so  much,  and  sail  on  this  river  alone.  But  so  long  as  I 
find  here  the  only  real  elysium,  I  cannot  hesitate  in  my  choice. 
My  work  is  writing,  and  I  do  not  hesitate  though  I  know 
that  no  subject  is  too  trivial  for  me,  tried  by  ordinary  stand 
ards;  for,  ye  fools  j  the  theme  is  nothing,  the  life  is  everything. 
All  that  interests  the  reader  is  the  depth  and  intensity  of 
the  life  exerted.  We  touch  our  subject  but  by  a  point  which 
has  no  breadth;  but  the  pyramid  of  our  experience,  or  our  in 
terest  in  it,  rests  on  us  by  a  broader  or  narrower  base.  What 
is  man  is  all  in  all,  Nature  nothing  but  as  she  draws  him  out 
and  reflects  him.  Give  me  simple,  cheap,  and  homely  themes." 
These  words  from  Thoreau  partially  illustrate  his  views 
upon  the  subjects  he  proposed  to  treat  and  how  they  should 
be  treated,  with  that  poetic  wealth  he  enjoyed;  and  no  one 
need  look  for  prose.  He  never  thought  or  spoke  or  wrote 
that.  In  the  same  spirit  he  says  of  his  first  book,  which  had  a 

[83] 


THOREAU 

slow  sale:  "I  believe  that  this  result  is  more  inspiring  and 
better  for  me  than  if  a  thousand  had  bought  my  wares.  It 
affects  my  privacy  less,  and  leaves  me  freer.  Men  generally 
over-estimate  their  praises."" 

Of  his  themes,  the  following  is  one  view  among  others:— 
"As  I  walked  I  was  intoxicated  with  the  slight,  spicy  odor 
of  the  hickory-buds  and  the  bruised  bark  of  the  black-birch, 
and  in  the  fall  with  the  pennyroyal.  The  sight  of  budding 
woods  intoxicates  me  like  diet-drink.  I  feel  my  Maker  bless 
ing  me.  For  years  my  appetite  was  so  strong  that  I  fed,  I 
browsed  on  the  pine-forest's  edge  seen  against  the  winter 
horizon, — the  silvery  needles  of  the  pine  straining  the  light; 
the  young  aspen-leaves  like  light  green  fires.  The  young 
birch-leaves,  very  neatly  plaited,  small,  triangular,  light 
green  leaves,  yield  an  agreeable,  sweet  fragrance  (just  ex 
panded  and  sticky),  sweet-scented  as  innocence.  To  the  sane 
man  the  world  is  a  musical  instrument.  Formerly  methought 
Nature  developed  as  I  developed,  and  grew  up  with  me.  My 
life  was  ecstasy.  In  youth,  before  I  lost  any  of  my  senses,  I 
can  remember  that  I  was  all  alive  and  inhabited  my  body 
with  inexpressible  satisfaction;  both  its  weariness  and  its 
refreshment  were  sweet  to  me.  This  earth  was  the  most  glo 
rious  musical  instrument,  and  I  was  audience  to  its  strains. 
To  have  such  sweet  impressions  made  on  us,  such  ecstasies 
begotten  of  the  breezes,  I  can  remember  I  was  astonished. 
I  said  to  myself,  I  said  to  others,  there  comes  into  my  mind 
such  an  indescribable,  infinite,  all-absorbing,  divine,  heavenly 
pleasure,  a  sense  of  salvation  and  expansion.  And  I  have  had 

[84] 


LITERARY    THEMES 

naught  to  do  with  it;  I  perceive  that  I  am  dealt  with  by 
superior  powers.  By  all  manner  of  bounds  and  traps  threat 
ening  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  divine  law,  it  behooves  us 
to  preserve  the  purity  and  sanctity  of  the  mind.  That  I  am 
innocent  to  myself,  that  I  love  and  reverence  my  life." 

To  make  these  themes  into  activities,  he  considered, — 

"The  moods  and  thoughts  of  man  are  revolving  just  as 
steadily  and  incessantly  as  Nature's.  Nothing  must  be  post 
poned;  take  time  by  the  forelock,  now  or  never.  You  must 
live  in  the  present,  launch  yourself  on  any  wave,  find  your 
eternity  in  each  moment.  Fools  stand  on  their  island  oppor 
tunities,  and  look  toward  another  land.  There  is  no  other 
land,  there  is  no  other  life  but  this  or  the  like  of  this.  Where 
the  good  husbandman  is,  there  is  the  good  soil.  Take  any 
other  course,  and  life  will  be  a  succession  of  regrets." 

If  writing  is  his  business,  to  do  this  well  must  be  sought. 
August  21,  1851,  he  wrote: — 

"What  a  faculty  must  that  be  which  can  paint  the  most 
barren  landscape  and  humblest  life  in  glorious  colors!  It  is 
pure  and  invigorated  sense  reacting  on  a  sound  and  strong 
imagination.  Is  not  this  the  poet's  case?  The  intellect  of  most 
men  is  barren.  They  neither  fertilize  nor  are  fertilized.  It  is 
the  marriage  of  the  soul  with  Nature  that  makes  the  intellect 
fruitful,  that  gives  birth  to  imagination.  When  we  were  dead 
and  dry  as  the  highway,  some  sense  which  has  been  healthily 
fed  will  put  us  in  relation  with  Nature,  in  sympathy  with  her, 
some  grains  of  fertilizing  pollen  floating  in  the  air  fall  on  us, 
and  suddenly  the  sky  is  all  one  rainbow,  is  full  of  music  and 

[85] 


THOREAU 

fragrance  and  flavor.  The  man  of  intellect  only,  the  prosaic 
man,  is  a  barren  and  staminiferous  flower;  the  poet  is  a  fertile 
and  perfect  flower.  Men  are  such  confirmed  arithmeticians 
and  slaves  of  business,  that  I  cannot  easily  find  a  blank- 
book  that  has  not  a  red  line  or  a  blue  one  for  dollars  and 
cents.  The  poet  must  keep  himself  unstained  and  aloof.  Let 
him  perambulate  the  bounds  of  Imagination^  provinces,  the 
realms  of  poesy  and  not  the  insignificant  boundaries  of 
towns.  How  many  faculties  there  are  which  we  have  never 
found !  Some  men  methinks  have  found  only  their  hands  and 
feet.  At  least  I  have  seen  some  who  appeared  never  to  have 
found  their  heads,  but  used  them  only  instinctively  as  the 
negro  butts  with  his. 

"It  is  wise  to  write  on  many  subjects,  to  try  many  themes, 
that  so  you  may  find  the  right  and  inspiring  one.  Be  greedy 
of  occasions  to  express  your  thoughts;  improve  the  oppor 
tunity  to  draw  analogies;  there  are  innumerable  avenues  to 
a  perception  of  the  truth.  Improve  the  suggestion  of  each 
object,  however  humble,  however  slight  and  transient  the 
provocation;  what  else  is  there  to  be  improved?  Who  knows 
what  opportunities  he  may  neglect?  It  is  not  in  vain  that 
the  mind  turns  aside  this  way  or  that:  follow  its  leading, 
apply  it  whither  it  inclines  to  go.  Probe  the  universe  in  a 
myriad  points.  Be  avaricious  of  these  impulses.  Nature  makes 
a  thousand  acorns  to  get  one  oak.  He  is  a  wise  man  and 
experienced  who  has  taken  many  views,  to  whom  stones 
and  plants  and  animals,  and  a  myriad  objects  have  each 
suggested  something,  contributed  something.  We  cannot 

[86] 


LITERARY    THEMES 

write  well  or  truly  but  what  we  write  with  gusto.  The  body 
and  senses  must  conspire  with  the  mind.  Experience  is  the 
act  of  the  whole  man, — that  our  speech  may  be  vascular. 
The  intellect  is  powerless  to  express  thought  without  the 
aid  of  the  heart  and  liver  and  of  every  member.  Often  I  feel 
that  my  head  stands  out  too  dry  when  it  should  be  immersed. 
A  writer,  a  man  writing,  is  the  scribe  of  all  nature;  he  is  the 
corn  and  the  grass  and  the  atmosphere  writing.  It  is  always 
essential  that  we  live  to  do  what  we  are  doing,  do  it  with 
a  heart.  There  are  flowers  of  thought  and  there  are  leaves 
of  thought,  and  most  of  our  thoughts  are  merely  leaves  to 
which  the  thread  of  thought  is  the  stem.  Whatever  things  I 
perceive  with  my  entire  man,  those  let  me  record  and  it  will 
be  poetry.  The  sounds  which  I  hear  with  the  consent  and 
coincidence  of  all  my  senses,  those  are  significant  and  musical; 
at  least,  they  only  are  heard.  [September  #.]  I  omit  the  un 
usual,  the  hurricanes  and  earthquakes,  and  describe  the  com 
mon.  This  has  the  greatest  charm,  and  is  the  true  theme  of 
poetry.  You  may  have  the  extraordinary  for  your  province 
if  you  will;  let  me  have  the  ordinary.  Give  me  the  obscure 
life,  the  cottage  of  the  poor  and  humble,  the  work-days  of 
the  world,  the  barren  fields;  the  smallest  share  of  all  things 
but  poetical  perception.  Give  me  but  the  eyes  to  see  the 
things  which  you  possess. 

"How  watchful  we  must  be  to  keep  the  crystal  well  clear, 
that  it  be  not  made  turbid  by  our  contact  with  the  world, 
so  that  it  will  not  reflect  objects.  If  I  would  preserve  my  re 
lation  to  Nature,  I  must  make  my  life  more  moral,  more 

[87] 


THOREAU 

pure  and  innocent.  The  problem  is  as  precise  and  simple  as 
a  mathematical  one.  I  must  not  live  loosely,  but  more  and 
more  continently.  How  can  we  expect  a  harvest  of  thought 
who  have  not  had  a  seed-time  of  character?  Already  some  of 
my  small  thoughts,  fruit  of  my  spring  life,  are  ripe,  like  the 
berries  which  feed  the  first  broods  of  birds ;  and  some  others 
are  prematurely  ripe  and  bright  like  the  lower  leaves  of  the 
herbs  which  have  felt  the  summer's  drought.  Human  life 
may  be  transitory  and  full  of  trouble,  but  the  perennial  mind 
whose  survey  extends  from  that  spring  to  this,  from  Columella 
to  Hosmer,  is  superior  to  change.  I  will  identify  myself  with 
that  which  did  not  die  with  Columella  and  will  not  die 
with  Hosmer.'1 

As  the  song  of  the  spring  birds  makes  the  richest  music 
of  the  year,  it  seems  a  fit  overture  to  have  given  a  few  of 
Thoreau's  spring  sayings  upon  his  life  and  work.  Few  men 
knew  better,  or  so  well,  what  these  were.  In  some  senses  he 
was  a  scientific  man,  in  others  not.  I  do  not  think  he  relished 
science  in  long  words,  or  the  thing  Wordsworth  calls — 

" Philosopher!  a  fingering  slave, 
One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 
Upon  his  mother's  grave." 

He  loved  Nature  as  a  child, — reverenced  her  veils,  that 
we  should  not  conceitedly  endeavor  to  raise.  He  did  not  be 
lieve  the  study  of  anatomy  helped  the  student  to  a  practical 
knowledge  of  the  human  body,  and  replied  to  a  doctor's  sug 
gested  prescription,  "How  do  you  know  that  his  pills  will  go 
down?"  Nor  that  the  eggs  of  turtles  to  be,  seen  through  a 

[88] 


LITERARY     THEMES 

glass  darkly,  were  turtles;  and  he  said  to  the  ornithologist 
who  wished  to  hold  his  bird  in  his  hand,  that  "he  would 
rather  hold  it  in  his  affections."  So  he  saw  the  colors  of  his 
with  a  kind  heart,  and  let  the  spiders  slide.  Yet  no  man 
spent  more  labor  in  making  out  his  bird  by  Wilson  or  Nuttall. 

His  was  a  broad  catholic  creed.  He  thought  of  the  Hindoo 
Mythology,  "It  rises  on  me  like  the  full  moon  after  the  stars 
have  come  out,  wading  through  some  far  summer  stratum  of 
sky."  From  Homer,  who  made  a  "corner"  with  Grecian  my 
thology,  to  his  beloved  Indian,  whose  life  of  scalping  and 
clam-bakes  was  a  religion,  he  could  appreciate  the  good  of 
creeds  and  forms  and  omit  the  scruples.  He  says: — 

"If  I  could,  I  would  worship  the  paring  of  my  nails.  He 
who  discovers  two  gods  where  there  was  only  known  to  be 
one,  and  such  a  one !  I  would  fain  improve  every  opportunity 
to  wonder  and  worship,  as  a  sunflower  welcomes  the  light." 
"God  could  not  be  unkind  to  me  if  he  should  try.  I  love  best 
to  have  each  thing  in  its  season,  doing  without  it  at  all  other 
times.  It  is  the  greatest  of  all  advantages  to  enjoy  no  advan 
tage  at  all.  I  have  never  got  over  my  surprise  that  I  should 
have  been  born  into  the  most  estimable  place  in  all  the 
world,  and  in  the  very  nick  of  time  too.  I  heard  one  speak 
to-day  of  his  sense  of  awe  at  the  thought  of  God,  and  sug 
gested  to  him  that  awe  was  the  cause  of  the  potato-rot." 

He  again  expressed  himself  in  a  lively  way  about  these 
matters:  "Who  are  the  religious?  They  who  do  not  differ 
much  from  mankind  generally,  except  that  they  are  more 
conservative  and  timid  and  useless,  but  who  in  their  conver- 

[89] 


THOREAU 

sation  and  correspondence  talk  about  kindness  and  Heavenly 
Father,  instead  of  going  bravely  about  their  business,  trust 
ing  God  ever."  He  once  knew  a  minister,  and  photographs 
him :  "  Here 's  a  man  who  can't  butter  his  own  bread,  and  he 
has  just  combined  with  a  thousand  like  him  to  make  a  dipt 
toast  for  all  eternity." 

Of  a  book  published  by  Miss  Harriet  Martineau,  that 
Minerva  mediocre,  he  observes:  "Miss  Martineau's  last  book 
is  not  so  bad  as  the  timidity  which  fears  its  influence.  As  if 
the  popularity  of  this  or  that  book  could  be  so  fatal,  and  man 
would  not  still  be  man  in  the  world.  Nothing  is  so  much  to 
be  feared  as  fear.  Atheism  may,  comparatively,  be  popular 
with  God."  Religion,  worship,  and  prayer  were  words  he 
studied  in  their  history;  but  out-of-doors  (which  can  serve 
for  the  title  of  much  of  his  writing)  is  his  creed.  He  used  this 
expression:  "May  I  love  and  revere  myself  above  all  the  gods 
that  man  has  ever  invented;  may  I  never  let  the  vestal  fire 
go  out  in  my  recesses." 

He  thought  the  past  and  the  men  of  the  past,  as  they  crop 
out  in  institutions,  were  not  as  valuable  as  the  present  and 
the  individual  alive.  "They  who  will  remember  only  this  kind 
of  right,  do  as  if  they  stood  under  a  shed  and  affirmed  that 
they  were  under  the  unobscured  heavens.  The  shed  has  its 
use,  but  what  is  it  to  the  heavens  above."  The  institution  of 
American  slavery  was  a  filthy  and  rotten  shed  which  Thoreau 
used  his  utmost  strength  to  cut  away  and  burn  up.  From  first 
to  last  he  loved  and  honored  abolitionism.  Not  one  slave  alone 
was  expedited  to  Canada  by  Thoreau's  personal  assistance. 

[90] 


SPRING   AND   AUTUMN 


'  Methinks  I  hear  the  sound  of  time  long  past, 
Still  murmuring  o'er  us  in  the  lofty  void 
Of  these  dark  arches,  like  the  ling'ring  voice 
Of  those  who  long  ago  within  their  graves  have  slept." 

ORRA,  A  TRAGEDY. 


CHAPTER  VI 
SPRING   AND   AUTUMN 

As  he  is  dropping  beans  in  the  spring,  he  hears  the  bay- 
wing: — 

"I  saw  the  world  through  a  glass  as  it  lies  eternally.  It  re 
minded  me  of  many  a  summer  sunset,  of  many  miles  of  gray 
rails,  of  many  a  rambling  pasture,  of  the  farmhouse  far  in 
the  fields,  its  milk-pans  and  well-sweep,  and  the  cows  coming 
home  at  twilight;  I  correct  my  Human  views  by  listening  to 
their  Volucral.  I  ordinarily  plod  along  a  sort  of  white-washed 
prison  entry,  subject  to  some  indifferent  or  even  grovelling 
mood;  I  do  not  distinctly  seize  my  destiny;  I  have  turned 
down  my  light  to  the  merest  glimmer,  and  am  doing  some 
task  which  I  have  set  myself.  I  take  incredibly  narrow  views, 
live  on  the  limits,  and  have  no  recollection  of  absolute  truth. 
But  suddenly,  in  some  fortunate  moment,  the  voice  of  eternal 
wisdom  reaches  me  even,  in  the  strain  of  the  sparrow,  and 
liberates  me;  whets  and  clarifies  my  own  senses,  makes  me  a 
competent  witness.1' 

He  says  elsewhere  of  the  same  sparrow:  "The  end  of  its 
strain  is  like  the  ring  of  a  small  piece  of  steel  wire  dropped 
on  an  anvil."  How  he  loved  Aurora!  how  he  loved  the  morn 
ing!  "You  must  taste  the  first  glass  of  the  day's  nectar  if 
you  would  get  all  the  spirit  of  it.  Its  fixed  air  begins  to  stir 
and  escape.  The  sweetness  of  the  day  crystallizes  in  the 
morning  coolness."  The  morning  was  the  spring  of  the  day, 


THOREAU 

and  spring  the  morning  of  the  year.  Then  he  said,  musing: 
"All  Nature  revives  at  this  season.  With  her  it  is  really  a  new 
life,  but  with  these  church-goers  it  is  only  a  revival  of  religion 
or  hypocrisy;  they  go  down  stream  to  still  muddier  waters. 
It  cheers  me  more  to  behold  the  mass  of  gnats  which  have 
revived  in  the  spring  sun.  If  a  man  do  not  revive  with  Na 
ture  in  the  spring,  how  shall  he  revive  when  a  white- collared 
priest  prays  for  him?"  This  dash  at  theological  linen  is  im 
mediately  followed  by  "  Small  water-bugs  in  Clematis  Brook." 

Of  the  willow  fish-creel  in  Farrar's  Brook,  near  the  Nine- 
acre  Corner  Bridge,  he  says: — 

"It  was  equal  to  a  successful  stanza  whose  subject  was 
spring.  I  see  those  familiar  features,  that  large  type  with 
which  all  my  life  is  associated,  unchanged.  We  too  are  obey 
ing  the  laws  of  all  Nature.  Not  less  important  are  the  ob 
servers  of  the  birds  than  the  birds  themselves.  This  rain  is 
good  for  thought,  it  is  especially  agreeable  to  me  as  I  enter 
the  wood  and  hear  the  rustling  dripping  on  the  leaves.  It 
domiciliates  me  in  nature.  The  woods  are  more  like  a  house 
for  the  rain;  the  few  slight  noises  resound  more  hollow  in 
them,  the  birds  hop  nearer,  the  very  trees  seem  still  and  pen 
sive.  We  love  to  sit  on  and  walk  over  sandy  tracts  in  the 
spring,  like  cicindelas.  These  tongues  of  russet  land,  tapering 
and  sloping  into  the  flood,  do  almost  speak  to  me.  One  piece 
of  ice,  in  breaking  on  the  river,  rings  when  struck  on  an 
other,  like  a  trowel  on  a  brick.  The  loud  peop  of  a  pigeon 
woodpecker  is  heard  in  our  rear,  and  anon  the  prolonged  and 
shrill  cackle  calling  the  thin  wooded  hillsides  and  pastures  to 

[94] 


SPRING    AND    AUTUMN 

life.  You  doubt  if  the  season  will  be  long  enough  for  such 
oriental  and  luxurious  slowness.  I  think  that  my  senses  made 
the  truest  report  the  first  time. 

"There  is  a  time  to  watch  the  ripples  on  Ripple  Lake,  to 
look  for  arrow-heads,  to  study  the  rocks  and  lichens,  a  time 
to  walk  on  sandy  deserts,  and  the  observer  of  nature  must 
improve  these  seasons  as  much  as  the  farmer  his.  Those  ripple 
lakes1  lie  now  in  the  midst  of  mostly  bare,  brown,  or  tawny 
dry  woodlands,  themselves  the  most  living  objects.  They  may 
say  to  the  first  woodland  flowers, — 4We  played  with  the 
North  winds  here  before  ye  were  born!"  When  the  playful 
breeze  drops  on  the  pool,  it  springs  to  right  and  left,  quick 
as  a  kitten  playing  with  dead  leaves. 

"This  pine  warbler  impresses  me  as  if  it  were  calling  the 
trees  to  life;  I  think  of  springing  twigs.  Its  jingle  rings  through 
the  wood  at  short  intervals,  as  if,  like  an  electric  spark,  it 
imparted  a  fresh  spring  life  to  them.  The  fresh  land  emerging 
from  the  water  reminds  me  of  the  isle  which  was  called  up 
from  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  which  was  given  to  Apollo.  Or, 
like  the  skin  of  a  pard, — the  great  mother  leopard  that 
Nature  is, — where  she  lies  at  length,  exposing  her  flanks  to 
the  sun.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  land  to  kiss  and  stroke  the  very 
sward,  it  is  so  fair.  It  is  homely  and  domestic  to  my  eyes 
like  the  rug  that  lies  before  my  hearth-side.  As  the  walls  of 
cities  are  fabled  to  have  been  built  by  music,  so  my  pines 
were  established  by  the  song  of  the  field-sparrow.  I  heard  the 

1  Near  Goose  Pond.  Emerson  greatly  admired  these  ripples,  and  I  have 
visited  these  places  with  him  in  breezy  autumn  days.  w.  E.  c. 

[95] 


THOREAU 

jingle  of  the  blackbird, — some  of  the  most  liquid  notes,  as 
if  produced  by  some  of  the  water  of  the  Pierian  spring  flow 
ing  through  some  kind  of  musical  water-pipe,  and  at  the 
same  moment  setting  in  motion  a  multitude  of  fine  vibrating 
metallic  springs, — like  a  shepherd  merely  meditating  most 
enrapturing  tunes  on  such  a  water-pipe.  The  robin's  song 
gurgles  out  of  all  conduits  now, — they  are  choked  with  it. 

"I  hear  at  a  distance  in  the  meadow,  still  at  long  intervals, 
the  hurried  commencement  of  the  bobolink's  strain :  the  bird 
is  just  touching  the  strings  of  his  theorbo,  his  glassichord, 
his  water-organ,  and  one  or  two  notes  globe  themselves  and 
fall  in  liquid  bubbles  from  his  teeming  throat.  .  .  .  Be 
ginning  slowly  and  deliberately,  the  partridge's  beat  sounds 
faster  and  faster  far  away  under  the  boughs  and  through 
the  aisle  of  the  wood,  until  it  becomes  a  regular  roll.  How 
many  things  shall  we  not  see  and  be  and  do,  when  we  walk 
there  where  the  partridge  drums.  The  rush-sparrow  jingles 
her  small  change, — pure  silver, — on  the  counter  of  the  pas 
ture.  How  sweet  it  sounds  in  a  clear,  warm  morning,  in 
a  wood-side  pasture,  amid  the  old  corn-hills,  or  in  sprout- 
lands,  clear  and  distinct  like  6a  spoon  in  a  cup,'  the  last  part 
very  clear  and  ringing.  I  hear  the  king-bird  twittering  or 
chattering  like  a  stout-chested  swallow,  and  the  sound  of 
snipes  winnowing  the  evening  air.  The  cuckoo  reminds  me 
of  some  silence  among  the  birds  I  had  not  noticed.  I  hear  the 
squirrel  chirp  in  the  wall,  like  a  spoon.1  Times  and  seasons 

1  Sound  and  scent :  in  considering  Thoreau  you  must  constantly  asso 
ciate  these  senses  with  his  way  of  looking  after  things,  w.  E.  c. 

[96] 


SPRING     AND     AUTUMN 

may  perhaps  be  best  marked  by  the  notes  of  reptiles;  they 
express,  as  it  were,  the  very  feelings  of  the  earth  or  nature. 
About  May-day  the  ring  of  the  first  toad  leaks  into  the  gen 
eral  stream  of  sound, — a  bubbling  ring;  I  am  thrilled  to  my 
very  spine,  it  is  so  terrene  a  sound;  as  crowded  with  protu 
berant  bubbles  as  the  rind  of  an  orange:  sufficiently  consid 
ered  by  its  maker,  in  the  night  and  the  solitude.  I  hear  the 
dumping  sound  of  frogs,  that  know  no  winter.  It  is  like  the 
tap  of  a  drum  when  human  legions  are  mustering.  It  reminds 
me  that  Summer  is  now  in  earnest  gathering  her  forces,  and 
that  ere  long  I  shall  see  their  waving  plumes  and  hear  the 
full  bands  and  steady  tread.  What  lungs !  what  health !  what 
terrenity l  (if  not  serenity)  it  suggests !  How  many  walks  I  take 
along  the  brooks  in  the  spring !  What  shall  I  call  them  ?  Lesser 
riparial1  excursions?  prairial  rivular?  If  you  make  the  least 
correct  observation  of  nature  this  year,  you  will  have  occasion 
to  repeat  it  with  illustrations  the  next,  and  the  season  and 
life  itself  is  prolonged.  Days  are  long  enough  and  fair  enough 
for  the  worthiest  deeds.  The  day  is  an  epitome  of  the  year. 
I  think  that  a  perfect  parallel  may  be  drawn  between  the  sea 
sons  of  the  day  and  of  the  year. 

"If  the  writer  would  interest  readers,  he  must  report  so 
much  life,  using  a  certain  satisfaction  always  as  a  point  cTappui. 
However  mean  and  limited,  it  must  be  a  genuine  and  con 
tented  life  that  he  speaks  out  of.  They  must  have  the  essence 
and  oil  of  himself,  tried  out  of  the  fat  of  his  experience  and 

joy." 

1  Note  the  philology,  w.  E.  c. 

[97] 


THOREAU 

"The  Titan  heeds  his  sky  affairs, 
Rich  rents  and  wide  alliance  shares ; 
Mysteries  of  color  daily  laid 
By  the  sun  in  light  and  shade ; 
And  sweet  varieties  of  chance." 

Color  was  a  treat  to  Thoreau.  He  saw  the  seasons  and  the 
landscapes  through  their  colors;  and  all  hours  and  fields  and 
woods  spoke  in  varied  hues  which  impressed  him  with  senti 
ment.  "Nature  does  not  forget  beauty  and  outline  even  in  a 
mud-turtle's  shell."  Is  it  winter? — he  "loves  the  few  homely 
colors  of  Nature  at  this  season,  her  strong,  wholesome  browns, 
her  sober  and  primeval  grays,  her  celestial  blue,  her  vivacious 
green,  her  pure,  cold,  snowy  white.  The  mountains  look  like 
waves  in  a  blue  ocean  tossed  up  by  a  stiff  gale."  In  early  spring 
he  thinks, — 

"The  white  saxifrage  is  a  response  from  earth  to  the  in 
creased  light  of  the  year,  the  yellow  crowfoot  to  the  increased 
light  of  the  sun.  Why  is  the  pollen  of  flowers  commonly  yel 
low?  The  pyramidal  pine-tops  are  now  seen  rising  out  of  a 
reddish,  permanent  mistiness  of  the  deciduous  trees  just  burst 
ing  into  leaf.  The  sorrel  begins  to  redden  the  fields  with 
ruddy  health.  The  sun  goes  down  red  again  like  a  high-colored 
flower  of  summer.  As  the  white  and  yellow  flowers  of  the  spring 
are  giving  place  to  the  rose  and  will  soon  to  the  red  lily,  so 
the  yellow  sun  of  spring  has  become  a  red  sun  of  June  drought, 
round  and  red  like  a  midsummer  flower,  productive  of  torrid 
heats.  Again,  I  am  attracted  by  the  deep  scarlet  of  the  wild 
rose,  half  open  in  the  grass,  all  glowing  with  rosy  light." 

[98] 


SPRING    AND     AUTUMN 

"The  soft,  mellow,  fawn-colored  light  of  the  July  sunset 
seemed  to  come  from  the  earth  itself.  My  thoughts  are  drawn 
inward,  even  as  clouds  and  trees  are  reflected  in  the  smooth, 
still  water.  There  is  an  inwardness  even  in  the  musquito's  hum 
while  I  am  picking  blueberries  in  the  dark  wood.  The  land 
scape  is  fine  as  behind  glass,  the  horizon-edge  distinct.  The 
distant  vales  towards  the  north-west  mountains  lie  up  open 
and  clear  and  elysian  like  so  many  Tempes.  The  shadows  of 
trees  are  dark  and  distinct;  the  din  of  trivialness  is  silenced. 
The  woodside  after  sunset  is  cool  as  a  pot  of  green  paint,  and 
the  moon  reflects  from  the  rippled  surface  like  a  stream  of 
dollars.  The  shooting  stars  are  but  fireflies  of  the  firmament. 
Late  in  September,  I  see  the  whole  of  the  red-maple, — bright 
scarlet  against  the  cold,  green  pines.  The  clear,  bright  scarlet 
leaves  of  the  smooth  sumac  in  many  places  are  curled  and 
drooping,  hanging  straight  down,  so  as  to  make  a  funereal 
impression,  reminding  me  of  a  red  sash  and  a  soldier's  funeral. 
They  impress  me  quite  as  black  crape  similarly  arranged, — 
the  bloody  plants.  In  mid-December  the  day  is  short ;  it  seems 
to  be  composed  of  two  twilights  merely,  and  there  is  some 
times  a  peculiar,  clear,  vitreous,  greenish  sky  in  the  west,  as 
it  were  a  molten  gem." 

"In  this  January  thaw  I  hear  the  pleasant  sound  of  run 
ning  water;  here  is  my  Italy,  my  heaven,  my  New  England. 
I  can  understand  why  the  Indians  hereabouts  placed  heaven 
in  the  south-west,  the  soft  south.  The  delicious,  soft,  spring- 
suggesting  air!  The  sky,  seen  here  and  there  through  the 
wrack,  bluish  and  greenish,  and  perchance  with  a  vein  of  red 

[99] 


THOREAU 

in  the  west  seems  like  the  inside  of  a  shell  deserted  by  its 
tenant,  into  which  I  have  crawled.  What  beauty  in  the  run 
ning  brooks!  What  life!  What  society!  The  cold  is  merely 
superficial;  it  is  summer  still  at  the  core,  far,  far  within.  It  is 
in  the  cawing  of  the  crow,  the  crowing  of  the  cock,  the  warmth 
of  the  sun  on  our  backs.  I  hear  faintly  the  cawing  of  a  crow 
far,  far  away,  echoing  from  some  unseen  woodside,  as  if  dead 
ened  by  the  spring-like  vapor  which  the  sun  is  drawing  from 
the  ground.  It  mingles  with  the  slight  murmur  from  the  vil 
lage,  the  sound  of  children  at  play,  as  one  stream  gently 
empties  into  another,  and  the  wild  and  tame  are  one.  What  a 
delicious  sound !  It  is  not  merely  crow  calling  to  crow.  If  he 
has  voice,  I  have  ears.  ...  I  think  I  never  saw  a  more  elysian 
blue  than  my  shadow.  I  am  turned  into  a  tall,  blue  Persian 
from  my  cap  to  my  boots,  such  as  no  mortal  dye  can  produce, 
with  an  amethystine  hatchet  in  my  hand. 

"The  holes  in  the  pasture  on  Fairhaven  Hill  where  rocks 
were  taken  out  are  now  converted  into  perfect  jewels.  They 
are  filled  with  water  of  crystalline  transparency,  through 
which  I  see  to  their  emerald  bottoms,  paved  with  emerald. 
Even  these  furnish  goblets  and  vases  of  perfect  purity  to  hold 
the  dews  and  rains;  and  what  more  agreeable  bottom  can  we 
look  to  than  this,  which  the  earliest  sun  and  moisture  had 
tinged  green?  I  see  an  early  grasshopper  drowning  in  one;  it 
looks  like  a  fate  to  be  envied:  April  wells  call  them:  vases 
clean,  as  if  enamelled.  What  wells  can  be  more  charming? 
You  almost  envy  the  wood-frogs  and  toads  that  hop  amid 
such  gems  as  fungi,  some  pure  and  bright  enough  for  a  breast- 

[100] 


SPRING    AND    AUTUMN 

pin.  Out  of  every  crevice  between  the  dead  leaves  oozes  some 
vehicle  of  color,  the  unspent  wealth  of  the  year  which  Nature 
is  now  casting  forth,  as  if  it  were  only  to  empty  herself.  And, 
now  to  your  surprise,  these  ditches  are  crowded  with  mil 
lions  of  little  stars  (Aster  Tradescanti).  Call  them  travellers' 
thoughts.  What  green,  herbaceous,  graminivorous  thoughts 
the  wood-frog  must  have!  I  wish  that  my  thoughts  were  as 
reasonable  as  his." 

"I  notice  many  little,  pale-brown,  dome-shaped  puff-balls, 
puckered  to  a  centre  beneath,  which  emit  their  dust :  when 
you  pinch  them,  a  smoke-like,  brown  dust  (snuff-colored) 
issues  from  the  orifice  at  their  top,  like  smoke  from  a  chim 
ney.  It  is  so  fine  and  light  that  it  rises  into  the  air  and  is 
wafted  away  like  smoke.  They  are  low,  oriental  domes  or 
mosques,  sometimes  crowded  together  in  nests  like  a  collec 
tion  of  humble  cottages  on  the  moor,  in  the  coal-pit  or  Nu- 
midian  style.  For  there  is  suggested  some  humble  hearth 
beneath,  from  which  this  smoke  comes  up;  as  it  were,  the 
homes  of  slugs  and  crickets.  Amid  the  low  and  withering 
grass,  their  resemblance  to  rude,  dome-shaped  cottages  where 
some  humble  but  everlasting  life  is  lived,  pleases  me  not  a 
little,  and  their  smoke  ascends  between  the  legs  of  the  herds 
and  the  traveller.  I  imagine  a  hearth  and  pot,  and  some  snug 
but  humble  family  passing  its  Sunday  evening  beneath  each 
one.  I  locate  there  at  once  all  that  is  simple  and  admirable 
in  human  life;  there  is  no  virtue  which  these  roofs  exclude. 
I  imagine  with  what  faith  and  contentment  I  could  come 
home  to  them  at  evening.1' 

[101] 


THOREAU 

Thus  social  is  Nature,  if  her  lover  bring  a  friendly  heart. 
The  love  of  beauty  and  truth  which  can  light  and  cheer  its 
possessor,  not  only  in  youth  and  health,  but  to  the  verge  of 
the  abyss,  walked  abroad  with  our  Walden  naturalist;  for 
"Nature  never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her."  To  be 
faithful  in  few  things,  to  possess  your  soul  in  peace  and  make 
the  best  use  of  the  one  talent,  is  deemed  an  acceptable  offer 
ing, — omne  devotum  pro  significo. 

"I  am  a  stranger  in  your  towns;  I  can  winter  more  to  my 
mind  amid  the  shrub-oaks;  I  have  made  arrangements  to  stay 
with  them.  The  shrub-oak,  lowly,  loving  the  earth  and  spread 
ing  over  it,  tough,  thick-leaved;  leaves  firm  and  sound  in 
winter,  and  rustling  like  leather  shields;  leaves  firm  and  whole 
some,  clear  and  smooth  to  the  touch.  Tough  to  support  the 
snow,  not  broken  down  by  it,  well-nigh  useless  to  man,  a  sturdy 
phalanx  hard  to  break  through,  product  of  New  England's 
surface,  bearing  many  striped  acorns.  Well-tanned  leather- 
color  on  the  one  side,  sun-tanned,  color  of  colors,  color  of 
the  cow  and  the  deer;  silver-downy  beneath,  turned  toward 
the  late  bleached  and  russet  fields.  What  are  acanthus  leaves 
and  the  rest  to  this,  emblem  of  my  winter  condition  ?  I  love 
and  could  embrace  the  shrub-oak  with  its  scaly  garment  of 
leaves  rising  above  the  snow,  lowly  whispering  to  me,  akin  to 
winter  thoughts  and  sunsets  and  to  all  virtue.  Rigid  as  iron, 
clear  as  the  atmosphere,  hardy  as  virtue,  innocent  and  sweet 
as  a  maiden,  is  the  shrub-oak.  I  felt  a  positive  yearning  to 
one  bush  this  afternoon.  There  was  a  match  found  for  me  at 
last, — I  fell  in  love  with  a  shrub-oak.  Low,  robust,  hardy, 

[102] 


SPRING    AND    AUTUMN 

indigenous,  well-known  to  the  striped  squirrel  and  the  par 
tridge  and  rabbit,  what  is  Peruvian  bark  to  your  bark?  How 
many  rents  I  owe  to  you,  how  many  eyes  put  out,  how  many 
bleeding  fingers!  How  many  shrub-oak  patches  I  have  been 
through,  winding  my  way,  bending  the  twigs  aside,  guiding 
myself  by  the  sun  over  hills  and  valleys  and  plains,  resting  in 
clear  grassy  spaces.  I  love  to  go  through  a  patch  of  shrub- 
oaks  in  a  bee  line, — where  you  tear  your  clothes  and  put 
your  eyes  out." 

"Sometimes  I  would  rather  get  a  transient  glimpse,  a  side 
view  of  a  thing,  than  stand  fronting  to  it,  as  these  polypodys. 
The  object  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  as  I  went  by,  haunts  my 
thought  a  long  time,  is  infinitely  suggestive,  and  I  do  not  care 
to  front  it  and  scrutinize  it ;  for  I  know  that  the  thing  that 
really  concerns  me  is  not  there,  but  in  my  relation  to  that. 
That  is  a  mere  reflecting  surface.  Its  influence  is  sporadic, 
wafted  through  the  air  to  me.  Do  you  imagine  its  fruit  to 
stick  to  the  back  of  its  leaf  all  winter?  At  this  season,  poly 
pody  is  in  the  air.  My  thoughts  are  with  them  a  long  time 
after  my  body  has  passed.  It  is  the  cheerful  community  of  the 
polypodys:  are  not  wood-frogs  the  philosophers  who  walk  in 
these  groves?" 

In  winter:  "How  completely  a  load  of  hay  revives  the 
memory  of  past  summers.  Summer  in  us  is  only  a  little  dried, 
like  it."  The  foul  flanks  of  the  cattle  remind  him  how  early 
it  still  is  in  the  spring.  He  knows  the  date  by  his  garment, 
and  says  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  April,  "The  twenty-seventh 
and  to-day  are  weather  for  a  half-thick  single  coat.  This  first 

[103] 


THOREAU 

off-coat  warmth."  The  first  week  of  May,  "The  shadow  of  the 
cliff  is  like  a  dark  pupil  on  the  side  of  the  hill.  That  cliff  and 
its  shade  suggests  dark  eyes  and  eyelashes  and  overhanging 
brows.  It  is  a  leafy  mist  throughout  the  forest.11  And  with  a 
rare  comparison,  "The  green  of  the  new  grass,  the  last  week 
in  April,  has  the  regularity  of  a  parapet  or  rampart  to  a  for 
tress.  It  winds  along  the  irregular  lines  of  tussocks  like  the 
wall  of  China  over  hill  and  dale.  As  I  was  measuring,  along 
the  Marlboro1  road,  a  fine  little  blue-slate  butterfly  fluttered 
over  the  chain.  Even  its  feeble  strength  was  required  to  fetch 
the  year  about.  How  daring,  even  rash.  Nature  appears,  who 
sends  out  butterflies  so  early.  Sardanapalus-like,  she  loves  ex 
tremes  and  contrasts.11  (It  was  this  day,  April  28,  1856,  that 
Thoreau  first  definitely  theorized  the  succession  of  forest 
trees.)  The  sight  and  sound  of  the  first  humming-bird  made 
him  think  he  was  in  the  tropics,  in  Demerara  or  Maracaibo. 

Shall  we  take  an  autumn  walk,  the  first  September  week? 

"Nature  improves  this,  her  last  opportunity,  to  empty  her 
lap  of  flowers.  I  turn  Anthony^  corner.  It  is  an  early  Septem 
ber  afternoon,  melting,  warm,  and  sunny;  the  thousand  of 
grasshoppers  leaping  before  you,  reflect  gleams  of  light.  A 
little  distance  off,  the  field  is  yellowed  with  a  Xerxean  army 
of  Solidago  nemoralis  (gray  golden-rod)  between  me  and  the 
sun.  It  spreads  its  legions  over  the  dry  plains  now,  as  soldiers 
muster  in  the  fall, — fruit  of  August  and  September  sprung 
from  the  sun-dust.  The  fields  and  hills  appear  in  their  yellow 
uniform  (its  recurved  standard,  a  little  more  than  a  foot  high), 
marching  to  the  holy  land,  a  countless  host  of  crusaders.  The 

[104] 


SPRING     AND     AUTUMN 

earth -song  of  the  cricket  comes  up  through  all,  and  ever  and 
anon  the  hot  z-ing  of  the  locust  is  heard.  The  dry,  deserted 
fields  are  one  mass  of  yellow,  like  a  color  shoved  to  one  side 
on  Nature's  palette.  You  literally  wade  in  flowers  knee-deep, 
and  now  the  moist  banks  and  low  bottoms  are  beginning  to 
be  abundantly  sugared  with  the  Aster  Tradescanti.  How  in 
effectual  is  the  note  of  a  bird  now !  We  hear  it  as  if  we  heard 
it  not  and  forget  it  immediately.  The  blackbirds  were  prun 
ing  themselves  and  splitting  their  throats  in  vain,  trying  to 
sing  as  the  other  day ;  all  the  melody  flew  off  in  splinters.  By 
the  first  week  of  October,  the  hue  of  maturity  has  come  even 
to  that  fine,  silver- topped,  feathery  grass,  two  or  three  feet 
high  in  clumps,  on  dry  places;  I  am  riper  for  thought  too. 
Every  thing,  all  fruits  and  leaves,  even  the  surfaces  of  stone 
and  stubble,  are  all  ripe  in  this  air.  The  chickadees  of  late 
have  winter  ways,  flocking  after  you."  "Birds  generally  wear 
the  russet  dress  of  nature  at  this  season  [November  7],  they 
have  their  fall  no  less  than  the  plants;  the  bright  tints  de 
part  from  their  foliage  of  feathers,  and  they  flit  past  like 
withered  leaves  in  rustling  flocks.  The  sparrow  is  a  withered 
leaf.  When  the  flower  season  is  over,  when  the  great  company 
of  flower-seekers  have  ceased  their  search,  the  fringed  gentian 
raises  its  blue  face  above  the  withering  grass  beside  the  brooks 
for  a  moment,  having  at  the  eleventh  hour  made  up  its  mind 
to  join  the  planet's  floral  exhibition.  Pieces  of  water  are  now 
reservoirs  of  dark  indigo;  as  for  the  dry  oak-leaves,  all  winter 
is  their  fall." 

"The  tinkling  notes  of  goldfinches  and  bobolinks  which  we 
[  105  ] 


THOREAU 

hear  in  August  are  of  one  character,  and  peculiar  to  the  sea 
son.  They  are  not  voluminous  flowers,  but  rather  nuts  of 
sound,  ripened  seeds  of  sound.  It  is  the  tinkling  of  ripened 
grains  in  Nature's  basket;  like  the  sparkle  on  water,  a  sound 
produced  by  friction  on  the  crisped  air.  The  cardinals  (Lobelia 
cardinal^)  are  fluviatile,  and  stand  along  some  river  or  brook 
like  myself.  It  is  the  three  o'clock  of  the  year  when  the  Bidens 
Eeck'ii  (water  marigold)  begins  to  prevail.  By  mid-October, 
the  year  is  acquiring  a  grizzly  look  from  the  climbing  mikania, 
golden-rods,  and  Andropogon  scoparius  (purple  wood-grass). 

And  painted  ducks,  too,  often  come  to  sail, 
And  float  amid  the  painted  leaves. 

Surely,  while  geese  fly  overhead,  we  can  live  here  as  content 
edly  as  they  do  at  York  Factory  or  Hudson's  Bay.  We  shall 
perchance  be  as  well  provisioned  and  have  as  good  society  as 
they.  Let  us  be  of  good  cheer  then,  and  expect  the  annual 
vessel  which  brings  the  spring  to  us,  without  fail. 

"Goodwin,  the  one-eyed  Ajax,  and  other  fishermen,  who  sit 
thus  alone  from  morning  to  night  at  this  season,  must  be 
greater  philosophers  than  the  shoemakers.  The  streets  are 
thickly  strewn  with  elm  and  button-wood  and  other  leaves, 
feuille-morte1  color.  And  what  is  acorn  color?  Is  it  not  as 
good  as  chestnut?  Now  (the  second  November  week)  for  twin 
kling  light,  reflected  from  unseen  windows  in  the  horizon  in 
early  twilight.  The  frost  seems  as  if  the  earth  was  letting  off 
steam  after  the  summer's  work  is  over.  If  you  do  feel  any  fire 

1  Fawn  color,  dry-leaf  color,  w.  E.  c. 

[106] 


SPRING    AND     AUTUMN 

at  this  season  out  of  doors,  you  may  depend  upon  it,  it  is 
your  own.  November,  eat-heart, — is  that  the  name  of  it?  A 
man  will  eat  his  heart  in  this,  if  in  any  month.  The  old  she- 
wolf  is  nibbling  at  your  very  extremities.  The  frozen  ground 
eating  away  the  soles  of  your  shoes  is  only  typical  of  the  Na 
ture  that  gnaws  your  heart.  Going  through  a  partly  frozen 
meadow  near  the  river,  scraping  the  sweet-gale,  I  am  pleas 
antly  scented  with  its  odoriferous  fruit.  The  smallest  (Asple- 
nium)  ferns  under  a  shelving  rock,  pinned  on  rosette- wise, 
looked  like  the  head  of  a  breast-pin.  The  rays  from  the  bare 
twigs  across  the  pond  are  bread  and  cheese  to  me.  ...  I  see 
to  the  bone.  See  those  bare  birches  prepared  to  stand  the 
winter  through  on  the  bare  hill-side.  They  never  sing, '  What's 
this  dull  town  to  me?'  The  maples  skirting  the  meadow  (in 
dense  phalanxes)  look  like  light  infantry  advanced  for  a 
swamp  fight.  Ah!  dear  November,  ye  must  be  sacred  to  the 
Nine,  surely.1' 

"If  you  would  know  what  are  my  winter  thoughts,  look 
for  them  in  the  partridge's  crop.  The  winter,  cold  and  bound 
out  as  it  is,  is  thrown  to  us  like  a  bone  to  a  famishing  dog. 
I  go  budding  like  a  partridge.  Some  lichenous  thoughts  still 
adhere  to  us,  our  cold  immortal  evergreens.  Even  our  experi 
ence  is  something  like  wintering  in  the  pack,  and  we  assume 
the  spherical  form  of  the  marmot.  We  have  peculiarly  long 
and  clear  silvery  twilights,  morn  and  eve,  with  a  stately  with 
drawn  after-redness, — it  is  mdigo-ey  along  the  horizon.  .  .  . 
Wachusett  looks  like  a  right  whale  over  our  bow,  ploughing 
the  continent  with  his  flukes  well  down.  He  has  a  vicious  look, 

[107] 


THOREAU 

as  if  he  had  a  harpoon  in  him.  All  waters  now  seen  through 
the  leafless  trees  are  blue  as  indigo,  reservoirs  of  dark  indigo 
among  the  general  russet,  reddish-brown,  and  gray. 

"I  rode  home  on  a  hay  rigging  with  a  boy  who  had  been 
collecting  a  load  of  dry  leaves  for  the  hog-pen, — this,  the 
third  or  fourth;  two  other  boys  asked  leave  to  ride,  with  four 
large,  empty  box-traps,  which  they  were  bringing  home  from 
the  woods.  They  had  caught  five  rabbits  this  fall,  baiting 
with  an  apple.  Some  fine  straw-colored  grasses,  as  delicate  as 
the  down  on  a  young  man's  cheek,  still  rise  above  this  crusted 
snow.  I  look  over  my  shoulder  upon  an  arctic  scene.  .  .  .  The 
winters  come  now  as  fast  as  snow-flakes;  there  is  really  but 
one  season  in  our  hearts.  The  snow  is  like  a  uniform  white 
napkin  in  many  fields.  I  see  the  old,  pale-faced  farmer  walk 
ing  beside  his  team  (in  the  sled),  with  contented  thoughts, 
for  the  five  thousandth  time.1  This  drama  every  day  in  the 
streets.  This  is  the  theatre  I  go  to." 

1  This  was  old  Hayden,  a  farm-laborer. 


[  108 


PHILOSOPHY 


"La  genie  c'est  la  patience." 

BUFFON. 

"  As  he  had  kyked  on  the  newe  mone." 

CHAUCER. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PHILOSOPHY 

"!T  was  summer,  and  now  again  it  is  winter.  Nature  loves  this 
rhyme  so  well  that  she  never  tires  of  repeating  it.  So  sweet 
and  wholesome  is  the  winter,  so  simple  and  moderate,  so  satis 
factory  and  perfect,  that  her  children  will  never  weary  of  it. 
What  a  poem!  an  epic,  in  blank  verse,  inscribed  with  un 
counted  tinkling  rhymes.  It  is  solid  beauty.  It  has  been  sub 
jected  to  the  vicissitudes  of  a  million  years  of  the  gods,  and 
not  a  single  superfluous  ornament  remains.  The  severest  and 
coldest  of  the  immortal  critics  shot  their  arrows  at  and  pruned 
it,  till  it  cannot  be  amended.  We  might  expect  to  find  in  the 
snows  the  footprint  of  a  life  superior  to  our  own ;  of  which  no 
zoology  takes  cognizance;  a  life  which  pursued  does  not  earth 
itself.  The  hollows  look  like  a  glittering  shield  set  round 
with  brilliants,  as  we  go  south-westward,  through  the  Cas 
sandra  swamps,  toward  the  declining  sun,  in  the  midst  of 
which  we  walked.  That  beautiful  frost-work,  which  so  fre 
quently  in  winter  mornings  is  seen  bristling  about  the  throat 
of  every  breathing-hole  in  the  earth^s  surface,  is  the  frozen 
breath  of  the  earth  upon  its  beard.  I  knew  what  it  was  by  my 
own  experience.  Some  grass  culms  eighteen  inches  or  two  feet 
high,  which  nobody  noticed,  are  an  inexhaustible  supply  of 
slender  ice  wands  set  in  the  snow.  The  waving  lines  within 
the  marsh-ice  look  sometimes  just  like  some  white,  shaggy 
wolf-skin.  The  fresh,  bright  chestnut  fruit  of  some  lichens, 

[in] 


THOREAU 

glistening  in  moist  winter  days,  brings  life  and  immortality 
to  light.  The  sight  of  the  masses  of  yellow  hastate  leaves  and 
flower-buds  of  the  yellow  lily,  already  four  or  six  inches  long 
at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  reminds  me  that  Nature  is  pre 
pared  for  an  infinity  of  springs  yet.  How  interesting  a  few 
clean,  dry  weeds  on  the  shore  a  dozen  rods  off,  seen  distinctly 
against  the  smooth  reflecting  water  between  ice! 

"The  surface  of  the  snow  everywhere  in  the  fields,  where  it 
is  hard  blown,  has  a  fine  grain  with  low  shelves,  like  a  slate 
stone  that  does  not  split  well;  also,  there  are  some  shell-like 
drifts,  more  than  once  round.  Over  the  frozen  river  only  the 
bridges  are  seen  peeping  out  from  time  to  time  like  a  dry 
eyelid.  The  damp,  driving  snow-flakes,  when  we  turned  partly 
round  and  faced  them,  hurt  our  eyeballs  as  if  they  had  been 
dry  scales:  there  are  plenty  of  those  shell-like  drifts  along 
the  south  sides  of  the  walls  now,  and  countless  perforations, 
sometimes  like  the  prows  of  vessels,  or  the  folds  of  a  white 
napkin  or  counterpane  dropped  over  a  bonneted  head.  Snow- 
flakes  are  the  wheels  of  the  storm  chariots,  the  wreck  of 
chariot  wheels  after  a  battle  in  the  skies;  these  glorious 
spangles,  the  sweeping  of  heaven's  floor.  And  they  all  sing, 
melting  as  they  sing,  of  the  mysteries  of  the  number  six,  six, 
six.  He  takes  up  the  water  of  the  sea  in  his  hand,  leaving  the 
salt;  he  disperses  it  in  mist  through  the  skies;  he  recollects 
and  sprinkles  it  like  grain  in  six-rayed  snowy  stars  over  the 
earth,  there  to  lie  till  it  dissolves  its  bonds  again. 

"I  see  great  thimbleberry  bushes,  rising  above  the  snow 
with  still  a  rich,  rank  bloom  on  them  as  in  July, — hypaethral 

[112] 


PHILOSOPHY 

mildew,  elysian  fungus!  To  see  the  bloom  on  a  thimbleberry 
thus  lasting  into  mid-winter !  What  a  salve  that  would  make 
collected  and  boxed!  I  should  not  be  ashamed  to  have  a 
shrub-oak  for  my  coat-of-arms;  I  would  fain  have  been  wad 
ing  through  the  woods  and  fields  and  conversing  with  the 
sane  snow.  Might  I  aspire  to  praise  the  moderate  nymph, 
Nature!  I  must  be  like  her, — moderate.  Who  shall  criticise 
that  companion?  It  is  like  the  hone  to  the  knife.  There  I 
get  my  underpinnings  laid  and  repaired,  cemented  and  lev 
elled.  There  is  my  country  club;  we  dine  at  the  sign  of  the 
shrub-oak,  the  new  Albion  House. 

"A  little  flock  of  red-polls  (Linaria  minor)  is  busy  picking 
the  seeds  of  the  pig-weed  in  the  garden,  this  driving  snow 
storm.  Well  may  the  tender  buds  attract  us  at  this  season, 
no  less  than  partridges,  for  they  are  the  hope  of  the  year,  the 
spring  rolled  up;  the  summer  is  all  packed  in  them.  Again 
and  again  I  congratulate  myself  on  my  so-called  poverty. 
How  can  we  spare  to  be  abroad  in  the  morning  red;  to  see 
the  forms  of  the  leafless  eastern  trees  against  the  clear  sky, 
and  hear  the  cocks  crow,  when  a  thin  low  mist  hangs  over 
the  ice  and  frost  in  meadows?  When  I  could  sit  in  a  cold 
chamber,  muffled  in  a  cloak,  each  evening  till  Thanksgiving 
time,  warmed  by  my  own  thoughts,  the  world  was  not  so 
much  with  me.  When  I  have  only  a  rustling  oak-leaf,  or  the 
faint  metallic  cheep  of  a  tree-sparrow,  for  variety  in  my 
winter  walk,  my  life  becomes  continent  and  sweet  as  the 
kernel  of  a  nut.  Show  me  a  man  who  consults  his  genius,  and 
you  have  shown  me  a  man  who  cannot  be  advised.  .  .  .  Going 

[113] 


THOREAU 

along  the  Nut  Meadow,  or  Jimmy  Miles  road,  when  I  see  the 
sulphur  lichens  on  the  rails  brightening  with  the  moisture,  I 
feel  like  studying  them  again  as  a  relisher  or  tonic,  to  make 
life  go  down  and  digest  well,  as  we  use  pepper  and  vinegar 
and  salads.  They  are  a  sort  of  winter  greens,  which  we  gather 
and  assimilate  with  our  eyes.  The  flattened  boughs  of  the 
white-pine  rest  stratum  above  stratum  like  a  cloud,  a  green 
mackerel-sky,  hardly  reminding  me  of  the  concealed  earth  so 
far  beneath.  They  are  like  a  flaky  crust  to  the  earth ;  my  eyes 
nibble  the  piney  sierra  which  makes  the  horizon's  edge,  as  a 
hungry  man  nibbles  a  cracker.  .  .  .  That  bird  (the  hawk) 
settles  with  confidence  on  the  white-pine  top,  and  not  upon 
your  weather-cock;  that  bird  will  not  be  poultry  of  yours, 
lays  no  eggs  for  you,  for  ever  hides  its  nest.  Though  willed  or 
wild,  it  is  not  wilful  in  its  wildness.  The  unsympathizing  man 
regards  the  wildness  of  some  animals,  their  strangeness  to 
him,  as  a  sin.  No  hawk  that  soars  and  steals  our  poultry  is 
wilder  than  genius;  and  none  is  more  persecuted,  or  above  per 
secution.  It  can  never  be  poet-laureate,  to  say  'pretty  Poll,'' 
and  'Poll  want  a  cracker."' 

In  these  sayings  may  his  life  best  be  sought.  It  is  an  auto 
biography  with  the  genuine  brand, — it  is  unconscious.  How 
he  was  affected  by  the  seasons,  who  walked  with  them  as  a 
familiar  friend !  thinking  thus  aloud  the  thoughts  which  they 
brought;  associations  in  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out; 
dear  and  delightful  as  memories  or  hopes !  He  had  few  higher 
sources  of  inspiration  than  night,  and  having  given  a  prayer 
of  his  to  the  moon,  and  now  a  saying,  "The  moon  comes  out 

[114] 


PHILOSOPHY 

of  the  mackerel  cloud,1  and  the  traveller  rejoices11;  let  us  see 
what  one  evening  furnishes:  it  is  that  of  September  7,  1851. 

"The  air  is  very  still;  a  fine  sound  of  crickets,  but  not  loud. 
The  woods  and  single  trees  are  heavier  masses  than  in  the 
spring;  night  has  more  allies.  I  hear  only  a  tree- toad  or  song- 
sparrow  singing  at  long  intervals,  as  in  spring.  The  most 
beautiful  thing  in  Nature  is  the  sun  reflected  from  a  tearful 
cloud.  Now  in  the  fields  I  see  the  white  streak  of  the  Neottia 
in  the  twilight.  The  whippoorwill  sings  far  off.  I  hear  the 
sound  from  time  to  time  of  a  leaping  fish  or  a  frog,  or  a 
muskrat  or  a  turtle.  I  know  not  how  it  is  that  this  universal 
crickefs  creak  should  sound  thus  regularly  intermittent,  as  if 
for  the  most  part  they  fell  in  with  one  another  and  creaked 
in  time,  making  a  certain  pulsing  sound,  a  sort  of  breathing 
or  panting  of  all  Nature.  You  sit  twenty  feet  above  the  still 
river,  see  the  sheeny  pads  and  the  moon  and  some  bare  tree- 
tops  in  the  distant  horizon.  Those  bare  tree-tops  add  greatly 
to  the  wildness. 

"Lower  down  I  see  the  moon  in  the  water  as  bright  as  in 
the  heavens,  only  the  water-bugs  disturb  its  disk,  and  now  I 
catch  a  faint  glassy  glare  from  the  whole  river  surface,  which 
before  was  simply  dark.  This  is  set  in  a  frame  of  double  dark 
ness  in  the  east;  i.e.,  the  reflected  shore  of  woods  and  hills 
and  the  reality,  the  shadow  and  the  substance  bi-partite,  an 
swering  to  each.  I  see  the  northern  lights  over  my  shoulder 

1  The  mackerel-sky  is  named  from  the  peculiar  bluish-whitish  tint  of  the 
shutter-leaved  clouds  that  spread  like  vast  mother-of-pearl  blinds  over 
heaven,  w.  E.  c. 

[115] 


THOREAU 

to  remind  me  of  the  Esquimaux,  and  that  they  are  still  my 
contemporaries  on  this  globe ;  that  they,  too,  are  taking  their 
walks  on  another  part  of  the  planet,  in  pursuit  of  seals  per 
chance.  It  was  so  soft  and  velvety  a  light  as  contained  a  thou 
sand  placid  days  recently  put  to  rest  in  the  bosom  of  the 
water.  So  looked  the  North-twin  Lake  in  the  Maine  woods. 
It  reminds  me  of  placid  lakes  in  the  mid-noon  of  Indian 
summer  days,  but  yet  more  placid  and  civilized,  suggesting  a 
higher  cultivation,  as  wildness  ever  does,  which  aeons  of  sum 
mer  days  have  gone  to  make,  like  a  summer  day  seen  far  away. 
All  the  effects  of  sunlight,  with  a  softer  tone,  and  all  the  still 
ness  of  the  water  and  air  superadded,  and  the  witchery  of  the 
hour.  What  gods  are  they  that  require  so  fair  a  vase  of  gleam 
ing  water  to  their  prospect  in  the  midst  of  the  wild  woods  by 
night? 

"Else  why  this  beauty  allotted  to  night,  a  gem  to  sparkle 
in  the  zone  of  Nox?  They  are  strange  gods  now  out;  methinks 
their  names  are  not  in  any  mythology.  The  light  that  is  in 
night,  a  smile  as  in  a  dream  on  the  face  of  the  sleeping  lake, 
enough  light  to  show  what  we  see,  any  more  would  obscure 
these  objects.  I  am  not  advertised  of  any  deficiency  of  light. 
The  faint  sounds  of  birds  dreaming  aloud  in  the  night,  the 
fresh  cool  air  and  sound  of  the  wind  rushing  over  the  rocks 
remind  me  of  the  tops  of  mountains.  In  this  faint,  hoary  light 
all  fields  are  like  a  mossy  rock  and  remote  from  the  culti 
vated  plains  of  day.  It  is  all  one  with  Caucasus,  the  slightest 
hill-pasture. 

"Now  the  fire  in  the  north  increases  wonderfully,  not  shoot- 
[116] 


PHILOSOPHY 

ing  up  so  much  as  creeping  along,  like  a  fire  on  the  moun 
tains  of  the  north,  seen  afar  in  the  night.  .The  Hyperborean 
gods  are  burning  brush,  and  it  spread,  and  all  the  hoes  in 
heaven  could  n't  stop  it.  It  spread  from  west  to  east,  over  the 
crescent  hill.  Like  a  vast  fiery  worm  it  lay  across  the  north 
ern  sky,  broken  into  many  pieces;  and  each  piece,  with  rain 
bow  colors  skirting  it,  strove  to  advance  itself  towards  the 
east,  worm -like  on  its  own  annular  muscles.  It  has  spread  into 
the  choicest  wood-lots  of  Valhalla;  now  it  shoots  up  like  a 
single,  solitary  watch-fire,  or  burning  brush,  or  where  it  ran 
up  a  pine-tree  like  powder,  and  still  it  continues  to  gleam 
here  and  there  like  a  fat  stump  in  the  burning,  and  is  reflected 
in  the  water.  And  now  I  see  the  gods  by  great  exertions  have 
got  it  under,  and  the  stars  have  come  out  without  fear  in 
peace.  Though  no  birds  sing,  the  crickets  vibrate  their  shrill 
and  stridulous  cymbals  in  the  alders  of  the  causeway,  those 
v  minstrels  especially  engaged  for  night's  quire." 

He  saw  the  great  in  the  little :  the  translucent  leaves  of  the 
Andromeda  cafycufata  seemed  in  January,  with  their  soft  red, 
more  or  less  brown,  as  he  walked  towards  the  sun,  like  cathe 
dral  windows;  and  he  spoke  of  the  cheeks  and  temples  of  the 
soft  crags  of  the  sphagnum.  The  hubs  on  birches  are  regular 
cones,  as  if  they  might  be  volcanoes  in  outline ;  and  the  small 
cranberries  occupy  some  little  valley  a  foot  or  two  over,  be 
tween  two  mountains  of  sphagnum  (that  dense,  cushion-like 
moss  that  grows  in  swamps).  He  says  distant  lightning  is  like 
veins  in  the  eye.  Of  that  excellent  nut,  the  chestnut,  "the 
wKole  upper  slopes  of  the  nuts  are  covered  with  the  same 

[117] 


THOREAU 

hoary  wool  as  the  points."  A  large,  fresh  stone-heap,  eight  or 
ten  inches  above  water,  is  quite  sharp,  like  Teneriffe.  These 
comparisons  to  him  were  realities,  not  sports  of  the  pen:  to 
elevate  the  so-called  little  into  the  great,  with  him,  was 
genius.1  In  that  sense  he  was  no  humorist.  He  sees  a  gull's 
wings,  that  seem  almost  regular  semicircles,  like  the  new 
moon.  Some  of  the  bevelled  roofs  of  the  houses  on  Cape  Ann 
are  so  nearly  flat  that  they  reminded  him  of  the  low  brows  of 
monkeys.  The  enlarged  sail  of  the  boat  suggests  a  new  power, 
like  a  Grecian  god  .  .  .  Ajacean.  The  boat  is  like  a  plough 
drawn  by  a  winged  bull.  He  asks,  "Are  there  no  purple  re 
flections  from  the  culms  of  thought  in  my  mind?"  thinking 
of  the  colors  of  the  poke-stem.  In  a  shower  he  feels  the  first 
drop  strike  the  right  slope  of  his  nose,  and  run  down  the  ra 
vine  there,  and  says,  "Such  is  the  origin  of  rivers,"  and  sees 
a  wave  whose  whole  height,  "from  the  valley  between  to  the 
top,"  was  fifteen  inches.  He  thus  practically  illustrates  his 
faith, — how  needless  to  travel  for  wonders;  they  lie  at  your 
feet ;  the  seeing  eye  must  search  intently.  The  Wayland  bird- 
stuiFer  shoots  a  meadow-hen,  a  Virginia  rail,  a  stormy  petrel 
and  the  little  auk,  in  Sudbury  meadows. 

He  wished  so  to  live  as  to  derive  his  satisfactions  and  in 
spirations  from  the  commonest  events,  every -day  phenomena; 
so  that  what  his  senses  hourly  perceived,  his  daily  walk,  the 
conversation  of  his  neighbors,  might  inspire  him;  and  he 
wished  to  dream  of  no  heaven  but  that  which  lay  about  him. 

1  I  remember  the  exact  spot  where  he  spoke  of  this.  He  was  then  in  his 
last  sickness,  and  said  that  he  could  never  feel  warm.  w.  E.  c. 

[118] 


PHILOSOPHY 

Seeing  how  impatient,  how  rampant,  how  precocious  were  the 
osiers  in  early  spring,  he  utters  the  prayer,  "May  I  ever  be 
in  as  good  spirits  as  a  willow.  They  never  say  die."  The  charm 
of  his  journal  must  consist  in  a  certain  greenness,  thorough 
freshness,  and  not  in  maturity.  "Here,  I  cannot  afford  to  be 
remembering  what  I  said,  did,  my  scurf  cast  off, — but  what 
I  am  and  aspire  to  become."  Those  annoyed  by  his  hardness 
should  remember  that  "the  flowing  of  the  sap  under  the  dull 
rinds  of  the  trees  is  a  tide  which  few  suspect."  The  same  ob 
ject  is  ugly  or  beautiful  according  to  the  angle  from  which 
you  view  it.  He  went  to  the  rocks  by  the  pond  in  April  to 
smell  the  catnep,  and  always  brought  some  home  for  the  cat, 
at  that  season.  To  truly  see  his  character,  you  must  "see  with 
the  unworn  sides  of  your  eye."  Once  he  enlarges  a  little  on  an 
offer  he  did  not  accept  of  a  passenger.  He  had  many:  genial 
gentlemen  of  all  sizes  felt  ready  to  walk  or  sail  with  him,  and 
he  usually  accepted  them,  sometimes  two  in  one.  On  this  oc 
casion  he  declines:  — 

"This  company  is  obliged  to  make  a  distinction  between 
dead  freight  and  passengers:  I  will  take  almost  any  amount 
of  freight  for  you  cheerfully, — anything,  my  dear  sir,  but 
yourself.  You  are  a  heavy  fellow,  but  I  am  well  disposed.  If 
you  could  go  without  going,  then  you  might  go.  There  's  the 
captain's  state-room,  empty  to  be  sure,  and  you  say  you 
could  go  in  the  steerage :  I  know  very  well  that  only  your 
baggage  would  be  dropped  in  the  steerage,  while  you  would 
settle  down  into  that  vacant  recess.  Why,  I  am  going,  not 
staying;  I  have  come  on  purpose  to  sail,  to  paddle  away  from 

[119] 


THOREAU 

such  as  you,  and  you  have  waylaid  me  on  the  shore.  ...  If 
I  remember  aright  it  was  only  on  condition  that  you  were 
asked)  that  you  were  to  go  with  a  man  one  mile  or  twain.  I 
could  better  carry  a  heaped  load  of  meadow  mud  and  sit  on 
the  thole-pins." 

•  He  believed  that  "we  must  not  confound  man  with  man. 
We  cannot  conceive  of  a  greater  difference  than  that  between 
the  life  of  one  man  and  that  of  another." 

"  It  is  possible  for  a  man  wholly  to  disappear  and  be  merged 
in  his  manners."  He  thought  a  man  of  manners  was  an  insect 
in  a  tumbler.  But  genius  had  evanescent  boundaries  like  an 
altar  from  which  incense  rises. 

f"l  "Our  stock  in  life,  our  real  estate,  is  that  amount  of 
thought  which  we  have  had,  and  which  we  have  thought  out. 
The  ground  we  have  thus  created  is  for  ever  pasturage  for 
our  thoughts.  I  am  often  reminded  that,  if  I  had  bestowed 
on  me  the  wealth  of  Croesus,  my  aims  must  still  be  the  same 
and  my  means  essentially  the  same.  The  art  of  life,  of  a  poet's 
life,  is,  not  having  anything  to  do,  to  do  something.  Improve 
the  suggestion  of  each  object  however  humble,  however  slight 
and  transient  the  provocation;  what  else  is  there  to  be  im 
proved?  You  must  try  a  thousand  themes  before  you  find 
the  right  one,  as  nature  makes  a  thousand  acorns  to  get  one 
oak.  Both  for  bodily  and  mental  health  court  the  present. 
Embrace  health  wherever  you  find  her.  None  but  the  kind 
gods  can  make  me  sane.  If  only  they  will  let  their  south 
wind  blow  on  me :  I  ask  to  be  melted.  You  can  only  ask  of 
the  metals  to  be  tender  to  the  fire  that  melts  them.  To 


PHILOSOPHY 

naught  else  can  they  be  tender.  Only  he  can  be  trusted  with 
gifts,  who  can  present  a  face  of  bronze  to  expectations." 

At  times,  he  asked:  "Why  does  not  man  sleep  all  day  as 
well  as  all  night,  it  seems  so  very  easy.  For  what  is  he  awake?" 
"Do  lichens  or  fungi  grow  on  you?  The  luxury  of  wisdom! 
the  luxury  of  virtue!  are  there  any  intemperate  in  these 
things?"  "Oh  such  thin  skins,  such  crockery  as  I  have  to  deal 
with!  Do  they  not  know  that  I  can  laugh?"  "Why  do  the 
mountains  never  look  so  fair  as  from  my  native  fields?"  "Who 
taught  the  oven-bird  to  conceal  her  nest?"  He  states  a  fa 
miliar  fact,  showing  that  the  notion  of  a  thing  can  be  taken 
for  the  thing,  literally:  "I  have  convinced  myself  that  I  saw 
smoke  issuing  from  the  chimney  of  a  house,  which  had  not 
been  occupied  for  twenty  years,  —  a  small  bluish,  whitish 
cloud,  instantly  dissipated."  Like  other  scribes,  he  wishes  he 
"could  buy  at  the  shops  some  kind  of  India-rubber  that  would 
rub  out  at  once  all  that  in  my  writing  which  it  now  costs  me  so 
many  perusals,  so  many  months,  if  not  years,  and  so  much  re 
luctance  to  erase"  His  temperament  is  so  moral,  his  least 
observation  will  breed  a  sermon,  or  a  water- worn  fish  rear 
him  to  Indian  heights  of  philosophy:  "How  many  springs 
shall  I  continue  to  see  the  common  sucker  (Catostomus  Bos- 
toniensis)  floating  dead  on  our  river?  Will  not  Nature  select 
her  types  from  a  new  font?  The  vignette  of  the  year.  This 
earth  which  is  spread  out  like  a  map  around  me  is  but  the 
lining  of  my  inmost  soul  exposed.  In  me  is  the  sucker  that  I 
see.  No  wholly  extraneous  object  can  compel  me  to  recognize 
it.  I  am  guilty  of  suckers.  .  .  .  The  red-bird  which  I  saw  on 


THOREAU 

my  companion's  string  on  election-days,  I  thought  but  the 
outmost  sentinel  of  the  wild  immortal  camp,  of  the  wild  and 
dazzling  infantry  of  the  wilderness.  The  red-bird  which  is  the 
last  of  nature  is  but  the  first  of  God.  We  condescend  to  climb 
the  crags  of  earth."" 

He  believes  he  is  soothed  by  the  sound  of  the  rain,  because 
he  is  allied  to  the  elements.  The  sound  sinks  into  his  spirit 
as  the  water  into  the  earth,  reminding  him  of  the  season 
when  snow  and  ice  will  be  no  more.  He  advises  you  to  be  not 
in  haste  amid  your  private  affairs.  Consider  the  turtle:  a 
whole  summer,  June,  July,  and  August  are  not  too  good,  not 
too  much  to  hatch  a  turtle  in.  Another  of  his  questions  is : 
"What  kind  of  understanding  was  there  between  the  mind 
that  determined  these  leaves  of  the  black  willow  should  hang 
on  during  the  winter,  and  that  of  the  worm  that  fastened  a 
few  of  these  leaves  to  its  cocoon  in  order  to  disguise  it?"  As 
an  answer  may  be  found  the  following :  "  It  was  long  ago  in  a 
full  senate  of  all  intellects  determined  how  cocoons  had  best 
be  suspended;  kindred  mind  with  mind  that  admires  and  ap 
proves  decided  it  so.  The  mind  of  the  universe  which  we  share 
has  been  intended  on  each  particular  point?  Thus  persevering, 
— and,  as  he  says  of  a  dwelling  on  the  Cape,  he  knocked  all 
round  the  house  at  five  doors  in  succession, — so  he  at  the 
great  out-doors  of  nature,  where  he  was  accommodated. 

(C  Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought ; 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought." 
[122] 


PHILOSOPHY 

His  fineness  of  perceiving,  his  delicacy  of  touch,  has  rarely 
been  surpassed  with  pen  or  pencil,  a  fineness  as  unpremedi 
tated  as  successful.  For  him  the  trout  glances  like  a  film  from 
side  to  side  and  under  the  bank.  The  pitch  oozing  from  pine 
logs  is  one  of  the  beautiful  accidents  that  attend  on  man's 
works,  instead  of  a  defilement.  Darby's  oak  stands  like  an 
athlete,  it  is  an  agony  of  strength.  Its  branches  look  like 
gray  lightning  stereotyped  on  the  sky.  The  lichens  on  the 
pine  remind  him  of  the  forest  warrior  and  his  shield  adhering 
to  him. 

In  spring  he  notices  pewee  days  and  April  showers.  The 
mountains  are  the  pastures  to  which  he  drives  his  thoughts, 
on  their  20th  of  May.  So  the  storm  has  its  flashing  van  fol 
lowed  by  the  long  dropping  main  body,  with  at  very  long  in 
tervals  an  occasional  firing  or  skirmishing  in  the  rear,  or  on  the 
flank.  "The  lightning,  like  a  yellow  spring-flower,  illumines 
the  dark  banks  of  the  clouds.  Some  aestrum  stings  the  cloud 
that  she  darts  headlong  against  the  steeples,  and  bellows 
hollowly,  making  the  earth  tremble.  It  is  the  familiar  note 
of  another  warbler  echoing  amid  the  roofs."  He  compares  the 
low  universal  twittering  of  the  chip-birds,  at  daybreak  in 
June,  to  the  bursting  bead  on  the  surface  of  the  uncorked 
day.  If  he  wishes  for  a  hair  for  his  com  pass- sight,  he  must  go 
to  the  stable;  but  the  hair-bird,  with  her  sharp  eyes,  goes  to 
the  road.  He  muses  over  an  ancient  muskrat  skull  (found  be 
hind  the  wall  of  Adams's  shop),  and  is  amused  with  the  notion 
of  what  grists  have  come  to  this  mill.  Now  the  upper  and 
nether  stones  fall  loosely  apart,  and  the  brain  chamber  where 

[123] 


THOREAU 

the  miller  lodged  is  now  empty  (passing  under  the  portcullis 
of  the  incisors),  and  the  windows  are  gone.  The  opening  of 
the  first  asters,  he  thinks,  makes  you  fruitfully  meditative; 
helps  condense  your  thoughts  like  the  mildews  in  the  after 
noon.  He  is  pretty  sure  to  find  a  plant  which  he  is  shown 
from  abroad,  or  hears  of,  or  in  any  way  becomes  interested  in. 
The  cry  of  hounds  he  lists  to,  as  it  were  a  distant  natural 
horn  in  the  clear  resonant  air.  He  says  that  fire  is  the  most 
tolerable  third  party.  When  he  puts  the  hemlock  boughs  on 
the  blaze,  the  rich  salt  crackling  of  its  leaves  is  like  mustard 
to  the  ear;  dead  trees  love  the  fire.  The  distant  white-pines 
over  the  Sanguinetto1  seem  to  flake  into  tiers;  the  whole  tree 
looks  like  an  open  cone.  The  pond  reminds  him,  looking  from 
the  mill-dam,  of  a  weight  wound  up;  and  when  the  miller 
raised  the  gate,  what  a  smell  of  gun- wash  or  sulphur!  "I  who 
never  partake  of  the  sacrament  made  the  more  of  it."  The 
solitude  of  Truro  is  as  sweet  as  a  flower.  He  drank  at  every 
cooler  spring  in  his  walk  in  a  blazing  July,  and  loved  to  eye 
the  bottom  there,  with  its  pebbly  Caddis-worm  cases,  or  its 
white  worms,  or  perchance  a  luxurious  frog  cooling  himself 
next  his  nose.  The  squirrel  withdraws  to  his  eye  by  his  aerial 
turnpikes.  "  The  roof  of  a  house  at  a  distance,  in  March,  is  a 
mere  gray  scale,  diamond  shape,  against  the  side  of  a  hill." 
"If  I  were  to  be  a  frog-hawk  for  a  month,  I  should  soon  have 
known  something  about  the  frogs."  He  thinks  most  men  can 
keep  a  horse,  or  keep  up  a  certain  fashionable  style  of  living, 

1  A  name  given  by  Mr.  Emerson  to  the  little  brook  running  under  the  rail 
road  and  to  Baker  Farm,  from  his  woodland  meadow  or  swamp,  w.  E.  c. 

[  124] 


PHILOSOPHY 

but  few  indeed  can  keep  up  great  expectations.  He  improves 
every  opportunity  to  go  into  a  grist-mill,  any  excuse  to  see 
its  cobweb-tapestry,  such  as  putting  questions  to  the  miller, 
while  his  eye  rests  delighted  on  the  cobwebs  above  his  head 
and  perchance  on  his  hat. 

So  he  walked  and  sang  his  melodies  in  the  pure  country,  in 
the  seclusion  of  the  field.  All  forms  and  aspects  of  night  and 
day  were  glad  and  memorable  to  him,  whose  thoughts  were 
as  pure  and  innocent  as  those  of  a  guileless  maiden.  Shall 
they  not  be  studied? 

"  I  will  give  my  son  to  eat 
Best  of  Pan's  immortal  meat, 
Bread  to  eat,  and  juice  to  drink ; 
So  the  thoughts  that  he  shall  think 
Shall  not  be  forms  of  stars,  but  stars, 
Not  pictures  pale,  but  Jove  and  Mars. 

The  Indian  cheer,  the  frosty  skies, 
Rear  purer  wits,  inventive  eyes. 

In  the  wide  thaw  and  ooze  of  wrong 
Adhere  like  this  foundation  strong1, 
The  insanity  of  towns  to  stem 
With  simpleness  for  stratagem." 

EMERSON'S  MONADNOC. 

If  it  is  difficult  (to  some)  to  credit,  it  is  no  less  certain  that 
Thoreau  would  indulge  himself  in  a  rhapsody, — given  the 
right  topic,  something  the  writer  cordially  appreciated.  In 
speech  or  with  the  pen,  the  eloquent  vein  being  touched,  the 
spring  of  discourse  flowed  rapidly,  as  on  this  subject  of  the 

Corner-road : — 

[  125  1 


THOREAU 

"  Now  I  yearn  for  one  of  those  old,  meandering,  dry,  unin 
habited  roads  which  lead  away  from  towns,  which  lead  us 
away  from  temptation,  which  conduct  to  the  outside  of  the 
earth  over  its  uppermost  crust;  where  you  may  forget  in  what 
country  you  are  travelling;  where  no  farmer  can  complain 
that  you  are  treading  down  his  grass;  no  gentleman  who  has 
recently  constructed  a  seat  in  the  country  that  you  are  tres 
passing;  on  which  you  can  go  off  at  half-cock  and  wave  adieu 
to  the  village;  along  which  you  may  travel  like  a  pilgrim 
going  no- whither;  where  travellers  are  not  often  to  be  met, 
where  my  spirit  is  free,  where  the  walls  and  flowers  are  not 
cared  for,  where  your  head  is  more  in  heaven  than  your  feet 
are  on  earth ;  which  have  long  reaches,  where  you  can  see  the 
approaching  traveller  half  a  mile  off,  and  be  prepared  for 
him;  not  so  luxuriant  a  soil  as  to  attract  men;  some  stump 
and  root  fences,  which  do  not  need  attention ;  where  travellers 
have  no  occasion  to  stop,  but  pass  along  and  leave  you  to 
your  thoughts;  where  it  makes  no  odds  which  way  you  face, 
whether  you  are  going  or  coming,  whether  it  is  morning  or 
evening,  mid-noon  or  midnight;  where  earth  is  cheap  enough 
by  being  public;  where  you  can  walk  and  think  with  least 
obstruction,  there  being  nothing  to  measure  progress  by; 
where  you  can  pace  when  your  breast  is  full,  and  cherish  your 
moodiness;  where  you  are  not  in  false  relations  with  men,  are 
not  dining  or  conversing  with  them ;  by  which  you  may  go  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

"Sometimes  it  is  some  particular  half-dozen  rods  which  I 
wish  to  find  myself  pacing  over;  as  where  certain  airs  blow, 

[  126] 


PHILOSOPHY 

there  my  life  will  come  to  me;  methinks,  like  a  hunter,  I  lie 
in  wait  for  it.  When  I  am  against  this  bare  promontory  of  a 
huckleberry  hill,  then  forsooth  my  thoughts  will  expand.  Is 
it  some  influence,  as  a  vapor  which  exhales  from  the  ground, 
or  something  in  the  gales  which  blow  there,  or  in  all  things 
there  brought  together,  agreeably  to  my  spirit?  The  walls 
must  not  be  too  high,  imprisoning  me,  but  low,  with  numerous 
gaps.  The  trees  must  not  be  too  numerous  nor  the  hills  too 
near,  bounding  the  view;  nor  the  soil  too  rich,  attracting  at 
tention  to  the  earth.  It  must  simply  be  the  way  and  the  life, 
—a  way  that  was  never  known  to  be  repaired,  nor  to  need 
repair,  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant.  I  cannot 
walk  habitually  in  those  ways  that  are  likely  to  be  repaired, 
for  sure  it  was  the  devil  only  that  wore  them;  never  by  the 
heel  of  thinkers  (of  thought)  were  they  worn.  The  saunterer 
wears  out  no  road,  even  though  he  travel  on  it,  and  therefore 
should  pay  no  highway  (or  rather  lowway)  tax;  he  may  be 
taxed  to  construct  a  higher  way  than  that  men  travel.  A 
way  which  no  geese  defile  or  hiss  along  it,  but  only  sometimes 
their  wild  brethren  fly  far  overhead;  which  the  kingbird  and 
the  swallow  twitfer  over,  and  the  song-sparrow  sings  on  its 
rails;  where  the  small  red  butterfly  is  at  home  on  the  yarrow, 
"and  no  boy  threatens  it  with  imprisoning  hat, — there  I  can 
walk  and  stalk  and  plod.  Which  nobody  but  Jonas  Potter 
travels  beside  me;  where  no  cow  but  his  is  tempted  to  linger 
for  the  herbage  by  its  side;  where  the  guideboard  is  fallen, 
and  now  the  hand  points  to  heaven  significantly,  to  a  Sud- 
bury  and  Marlboro1  in  the  skies.  That 's  a  road  I  can  travel, 

[127] 


THOREAU 

that  the  particular  Sudbury  I  am  bound  for,  six  miles  an 
hour,  or  two,  as  you  please;  and  few  there  be  that  enter 
therein.  Here  I  can  walk  and  recover  the  lost  child  that  I 
am,  without  any  ringing  of  a  bell.  Where  there  was  nothing 
ever  discovered  to  detain  a  traveller,  but  all  went  through 
about  their  business;  where  I  never  'passed  the  time  of  day1 
with  any, — indifferent  to  me  were  the  arbitrary  divisions  of 
time;  where  Tullus  Hostilius  might  have  disappeared,  at  any 
rate  has  never  been  seen, — the  road  to  the  Corner! 

"The  ninety  and  nine  acres  you  go  through  to  get  there, 
— I  would  rather  see  it  again,  though  I  saw  it  this  morning, 
than  Gray's  Churchyard.  The  road  whence  you  may  hear  a 
stake-driver,  or  whippoorwill,  or  quail,  in  a  midsummer  day. 
Oh,  yes!  a  quail  comes  nearest  to  the  Gum-c  bird1  heard 
there.  Where  it  would  not  be  sport  for  a  sportsman  to  go. 
The  Mayweed  looks  up  in  my  face  there,  the  pale  lobelia  and 
the  Canada  snap-dragon ;  a  little  hardhack  and  meadow-sweet 
peep  over  the  fence;  nothing  more  serious  to  obstruct  the 
view,  and  thimbleberries  are  the  food  of  thought  (before 
the  drought),  along  by  the  walls.  A  road  that  passes  over  the 
Height-of-land,  between  earth  and  heaven,  separating  those 
streams  which  flow  earthward  from  those  which  flow  heaven 
ward. 

"It  is  those  who  go  to  Brighton  and  to  market  that  wear 
out  all  the  roads,  and  they  should  pay  all  the  tax.  The  de 
liberate  pace  of  a  walker  never  made  a  road  the  worse  for 
travelling  on, — on  the  promenade  deck  of  the  world,  an  out- 
1  One  of  Thoreau's  names  for  some  bird,  so  named  by  the  farmers,  w.  E.  c. 

[128] 


PHILOSOPHY 

side  passenger;  where  I  have  freedom  in  my  thought,  and  in 
my  soul  am  free.  Excepting  the  omnipresent  butcher  with  his 
calf-cart,  followed  by  a  distracted  and  anxious  cow;  or  the 
inattentive  stranger  baker,  whom  no  weather  detains,  that 
does  not  bake  his  bread  in  this  hemisphere,  and  therefore  it 
is  dry  before  it  gets  here!  Ah!  there  is  a  road  where  you 
might  adventure  to  fly,  and  make  no  preparations  till  the  time 
comes ;  where  your  wings  will  sprout  if  anywhere,  where  your 
feet  are  not  confined  to  earth.  An  airy  head  makes  light  walk 
ing,  when  I  am  not  confined  and  baulked  by  the  sight  of 
distant  farmhouses,  which  I  have  not  gone  past.  I  must  be 
fancy  free;  I  must  feel  that,  wet  or  dry,  high  or  low,  it  is  the 
genuine  surface  of  the  planet,  and  not  a  little  chip-dirt  or  a 
compost  heap,  or  made  land,  or  redeemed.  A  thinker's  weight 
is  in  his  thought,  not  in  his  tread;  when  he  thinks  freely,  his 
body  weighs  nothing.  He  cannot  tread  down  your  grass, 
farmers ! " 

"Thus  far  to-day  your  favors  reach, 

O  fair  appeasing  presences  ! 
Ye  taught  my  lips  a  single  speech 
And  a  thousand  silences."  1 

1From  Emerson's  "Merops," — the  unspoken,  perhaps,  or  unspeakable. 


[129] 


WALKS    AND    TALKS 


"Absents  within  the  line  conspire." 

VAUGHAN. 

"What  I  have  reaped  in  my  journey  is,  as  it  were,  a  small  contentment 
in  a  never-contenting  subject ;  a  bitter-pleasant  taste  of  a  sweet-seasoned 
sour.1  All  in  all,  what  I  found  was  more  than  ordinary  rejoicing  in  an  ex 
traordinary  sorrow  of  delights." 

LITHGOW. 

"What  is  it  to  me  that  I  can  write  these  Table-Talks ?  Others  have  more 
property  in  them  than  I  have ;  they  may  reap  the  benefit,  I  have  had  only 
the  pain.  Nor  should  I  have  known  that  I  had  ever  thought  at  all,  but  that 
I  am  reminded  of  it  by  the  strangeness  of  my  appearance,  and  my  unfit- 
ness  for  anything  else." 

HAZLITT. 

"Not  mine  the  boast  of  countless  herds, 
Nor  purple  tapestries,  nor  treasured  gold ; 

But  mine  the  peaceful  spirit, 
And  the  dear  Muse,  and  pleasant  wine 
Stored  in  Boeotian  urns." 

BACCHYLIDES.  (Translated  by  PercivaL) 

EDITOR'S  NOTE.  We  have  now  come  to  the  extraneous  matter  introduced  by  Channing  while 
his  book  was  printing,  to  increase  its  size,  —  literal  padding,  yet  of  no  common  quality.  Intro 
ducing  it,  he  framed  these  mottoes  to  fit  his  "  Country  Walking,"  from  which  it  was  taken,  and  to 
fit  his  own  case  as  he  understood  it.  The  quotations  from  Vaughan  and  Hazlitt  show  this  morepar- 
ticularly;  the  '•'•absents"  in  1873  being  Thoreau,  who  had  cheerfully  contributed  to  the  suppressed 
book.  The  quotation  from  Hazlitt  applies  rather  closely  to  Channing' s  conception  of  his  own  char 
acter  and  fortunes  in  1853,  when  the  "  Country  Walking  "  was  written.  To  the  paradoxical  quota 
tion  from  lAthgow,  Channing  added  the  note  given  below.  Only  about  half  the  original  manu 
script  of  "Country  Walking"  was  used  in  this  book.  I  have  the  original  draft  in  pencil.  It  was 
all  carefully  copied  out  by  Channing  and  the  copy  submitted  to  Mr.  Emerson,  from  whose  col 
lection  of  manuscripts  it  came  to  me,  but  only  in  part.  What  became  of  the  rest  I  know  not;  but 
suppose  it  remained  in  Channing' s  hands,  and  was  used  by  him  to  print  from  in  1873.  He  com 
municated  to  me  then  the  general  fact  that  he  had  taken  the  walks  described,  with  Emerson  and 
Thoreau,  and  that  his  description  of  them  passed  from  hand  to  hand  among  the  three  for  revi 
sion.  I  suppose  this  was  strictly  true,  so  long  as  the  plan  remained  to  print  the  whole  as  a  book; 
but  when  that  was  given  up,  for  what  reason  I  cannot  say,  the  details  of  the  affair  seem  to  have 
been  forgotten  by  Mr.  Emerson.  At  least,  he  never  spoke  of  them  to  me,  although  he  complained 
that  Channing  had  done  ill  to  print  things  from  his  manuscript  which  he  had  not  yet  given  to  the 
-world.  Perhaps  he  may  have  fancied—  his  memory  even  then  being  somewhat  impaired—  that  his 
friend  had  secretly  copied  them;  but  that  cannot  have  been  the  case.  F.  B.  S. 

» Emerson  was  never  in  the  least  contented.  This  made  walking  or  company  to  him  a  penance. 
The  Future,— that  was  the  terrible  Gorgon  face  that  turned  the  Present  into  "a  thousand  belly 
aches."  "  When  shall  I  be  perfect*  when  shall  I  be  moral?  when  shall  I  be  this  and  that?  when 
will  the  really  good  rhyme  get  written?"  Here  is  the  Emerson  colic.  Thoreau  had  a  like  disease. 
Men  are  said  never  to  be  satisfied.  W.  E.  C. 


CHAPTER     VIII 
WALKS    AND    TALKS 

To  furnish  a  more  familiar  idea  of  Thoreau's  walks  and  talks 
with  his  friends  and  their  locality,  some  reports  of  them  are 
furnished  for  convenience  in  the  interlocutory  form. 

A    WALK    TO     SECOND     DIVISION     BROOK  1 

E.  And  so  you  are  ready  for  a  walk? 

" Hence  sand  and  dust  are  shak'd  for  witnesses." 

VAUGHAN. 

C.  When  was  I  ever  not?  Where  shall  we  go?  To  Conan- 
tum  or  White  Pond,  or  is  the  Second  Division  our  business 
for  this  afternoon? 

E.  As  you  will.  Under  your  piloting  I  feel  partially  safe; 
but  not  too  far,  not  too  much.  Brevity  is  the  sole  of  walking. 

1  The  citations  here  made  from  Emerson's  journal  begin  in  May,  1843,  but 
are  mostly  from  that  of  1848.  The  first  one  relates  to  a  walk  in  early  spring 
in  the  south-west  direction  from  Concord  village.  The  conversation  is  partly 
oral,  and  mostly  a  record  of  the  years  1848-50,  so  far  as  Emerson's  journal 
is  the  source ;  the  citations  from  Thoreau's  journals  are  from  that  of  1851 
largely ;  but  extend  to  and  through  1853-54,  and  go  on  with  occasional 
passages  to  1860 ;  after  which  Thoreau  wrote  but  little  in  his  completed 
journal.  When  it  is  possible  to  distinguish  between  the  speakers,  I  have 
marked  Emerson's  passages  "E."  and  Thoreau's  "T.,"  while  Channing's 
interpellations,  poetic  quotations,  and  descriptions  go  in  under  "C."  The 
"Minott"  here  mentioned  was  the  friend  of  the  three  walkers,  George  by 
name,  who  lived  near  Emerson  and  died  a  few  months  before  Thoreau  in 
1862.  He  has  been  described  by  all  three ;  by  Channing  under  the  fanciful 
name  of  "Angelo,"  and  again  in  verse  by  his  own  Christian  name.  r.  B.  s. 

[133] 


THOREAU 

T.  And  yet  all  true  walking,  all  virtuous  walking,  is  a 
travail.  The  season  is  proper  to  the  Brook.  I  am  in  the  mood 
to  greet  the  Painted  Tortoise;  nor  must  I  fail  to  examine  the 
buds  of  the  marsh-marigold,  now,  I  think,  somewhat  swollen. 
But  few  birds  have  come  in,  though  Minott  says  he  has  heard 
a  bluebird. 

C.  Did  he  ask  his  old  question, — "Seen  a  robin?" George 
Minott  is  native  and  to  the  manor  born ;  was  never  away  from 
home  but  once,  when  he  was  drafted  as  a  soldier  in  the  last 
war  with  England,  and  went  to  Dorchester  Heights;  and  he 
has  never  ridden  on  a  rail.  What  do  you  make  of  him? 

E.  He  makes  enough  of  himself.  The  railroad  has  proved 
too  great  a  temptation  to  most  of  our  farmers;  the  young  men 
have  a  foreign  air  their  fathers  never  had.  We  shall  not  boast 
of  Mors  Ipse,  Grass-and-Oats,  or  Oats-and-Grass,  and  old 
Verjuice  in  the  next  generation.  These  rudimental  Saxons 
have  the  air  of  pine-trees  and  apple-trees,  and  might  be  their 
sons  got  between  them ;  conscientious  laborers,  with  a  science 
born  within  them,  from  out  the  sap-vessels  of  their  savage 
sires.  This  savagery  is  native  with  man,  and  polished  New 
England  cannot  do  without  it.  That  makes  the  charm  of 
grouse-shooting  and  deer-stalking  to  these  Lord  Breadalbanes, 
walking  out  of  their  doors  a  hundred  miles  to  the  sea  on  their 
own  property;  or  Dukes  of  Sutherland  getting  off  at  last 
their  town  coat,  and  donning  their  hunter's  gear,  exasperated 
by  saloons  and  dress-boots. 

C.  Let  me  rest  a  fraction  on  this  bridge. 

E.  I  am  your  well-wisher  in  that.  The  manners  of  water  are 
[134] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

beautiful.  "As  for  beauty  I  need  not  look  beyond  my  oar's 
length  for  my  fill  of  it."  I  do  not  know  whether  you  used  the 
expression  with  design  the  other  day;  but  my  eye  rested  on 
the  charming  play  of  light  on  the  water,  which  you  were 
slowly  striking  with  your  paddle.  I  fancied  I  had  never  seen 
such  color,  such  transparency,  such  eddies.  It  was  the  hue  of 
Rhine  wines,  it  was  gold  and  green  and  chestnut  and  hazel, 
in  bewildering  succession  and  relief,  without  cloud  or  confu 
sion.  A  little  canoe  with  three  men  or  boys  in  it  put  out  from 
a  creek  and  paddled  down  stream ;  and,  afar  or  near,  we  paid 
homage  to  the  Blessed  Water,  inviolable,  magical,  whose  na 
ture  is  Beauty;  which  instantly  began  to  play  its  sweet  games, 
all  circles  and  dimples  and  lovely  gleaming  motions, — always 
Ganges,  the  Sacred  River, — and  which  cannot  be  desecrated 
or  made  to  forget  itself. 

C.  "For  marble  sweats,  and  rocks  have  tears." 

Hark!  Was  that  the  bluebird's  warble? 

E.  I  could  not  hear  it,  as  now  cometh  the  seventh  abomi 
nation,  the  train.  And  yet  it  looks  like  a  new  phenomenon, 
though  it  has  appeared  at  the  same  hour  each  day  for  these 
ten  years  since  1843. 

C.  Already  the  South  Acton  passengers  squeeze  their 
bundles,  and  the  member  of  the  legislature  hastens  to  drain 
the  last  drop  of  vulgar  gossip  from  the  Ginger-beer  paper 
before  he  leaves  the  cars  to  fodder  and  milk  his  kine.  I  trust 
that  in  heaven  will  be  no  cows.  They  are  created,  apparently, 
to  give  the  farmer  a  sport  between  planting  and  harvest,  the 

[135] 


THOREAU 

joy  of  haying,  dust,  grime,  and  tan,  diluted  by  sunstrokes. 

E.  The  cause  of  cows  is,  that  they  make  good  walking  where 
they  feed.  In  the  paths  of  the  thicket  the  best  engineer  is 
the  cow. 

T.  We  cross  where  the  high  bank  will  give  us  a  view  over 
the  river  at  Clam-shell,  and  where  I  may  possibly  get  an 
arrow-head  from  this  Concord  Kitchen-modding. 

C.  A  singular  proclivity,  thou  worshipper  of  Indians !  for 
arrow-heads;  and  I  presume,  like  certain  other  worships,  un- 
curable ! 

T.  Apply  thy  Procrustes-bed  to  my  action,  and  permit  me 
to  continue  my  search.  They  speak  of  Connecticuts  and  Hud- 
sons:  our  slow  little  stream,  in  its  spring  overflow,  draws  on 
the  surtout  of  greater  rivers;  a  river, — fair,  solitary  path,— 
the  one  piece  of  real  estate  belonging  to  the  walker,  unfenced, 
undeeded,  sacred  to  musquash  and  pickerel,  and  to  George 
Melvin,  gunner;  more  by  the  token  he  was  drowned  in  it. 

C.  Are  not  those  gulls,  gleaming  like  spots  of  intense  white 
light,  far  away  on  the  dark  bosom  of  the  meadows  ? 

T.  Yes,  indeed!  they  come  from  the  sea  each  spring-over 
flow,  and  go  a-fishing  like  Goodwin.  See !  I  have  got  a  quartz 
arrow-head, — and  perfect.  This  bank  is  made  of  the  clams 
baked  by  the  Indians.  Let  us  look  a  moment  at  the  minnows 
as  we  cross  the  brook;  I  can  see  their  shadows  on  the  yellow 
sand  much  clearer  than  themselves,  and  can  thus  count  the 
number  of  their  fins.  I  wonder  if  the  Doctor  ever  saw  a  min 
now.  In  his  report  on  reptiles,  he  says  he  has  never  seen  but 
one  Hylodes  Pickeringn,  in  a  dried  state.  It  is  well  also  to 

[136] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

report  upon  what  you  have  not  seen.  He  never  troubled  him 
self  with  looking  about  in  the  country. 

C.  The  poet  more  than  the  savant  marries  man  to  nature. 
I  wish  we  had  some  fuller  word  to  express  this  fine  picture  we 
see  from  Clam-shell  bank :  Jcinde  was  the  old  English  word. 

E.  [September  5,  1847.]  Kinde  only  filled  half  the  range  of 
our  fine  Latin  word.  But  nothing  designates  that  Power  which 
seems  to  work  for  beauty  alone;  whilst  man,  as  you  say,  works 
only  for  use. 

C.  See,  O  man  of  Nature,  yon  groups  of  weather-stained 
houses  we  now  o'ertop.  There  live  some  Christians,  put  away 
on  Lifers  plate  like  so  many  rinds  of  cheese;  single  women 
living  out  of  all  villages,  in  the  quiet  of  fields  and  woods. 
There  descend,  like  dew  on  flowers,  the  tranquillizing  years 
into  their  prickly  life-petals.  Save  the  rats  scrabbling  along 
the  old  plastering,  the  sawing  of  pluvial  pea-hens,  or  the  low 
of  the  recuperating  cow,  —  what  repose!  And  in  the  midst 
such  felons  of  destiny !  What  avails  against  hot-bread,  cream- 
of -tartar,  and  Oriental-Company  tea, — with  an  afternoon  nap? 
"O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die." 

I  have  met  CEnones  whom  I  could  have  spared  better  than 
these  horn-pouts  of  gossip.  Is  there  a  fixed  sum  of  hyson  al 
lotted  to  each  sibyl? 

E.  "Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

I  purposed  her,  that  should  with  even  powers 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  ar.d  the  shears  control 
Of  Destiny, — and  spin  her  own  free  hours." 

C.  The  bluebird,  sir!  the  first  bluebird!  there  he  sits  and 
[137] 


THOREAU 

warbles.  Dear  bird  of  Spring!  first  speech  of  the  original 
Beauty, — first  note  in  the  annual  concert  of  Love!  why 
soundest  thy  soft  and  plaintive  warble  on  my  ear  like  the 
warning  of  a  mournful  Past?  As  the  poet  Crashaw  sings,  if 
not  of  the  new  birds: — 

"We  saw  thee  in  thy  balmy  nest, 

Bright  dawn  of  our  eternal  day ! 
We  saw  thine  eyes  break  from  their  East, 

And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away : 
We  saw  thee, — and  we  blest  the  sight, — 
We  saw  thee  by  thine  own  sweet  light. 

She  sings  thy  tears  asleep,  and  dips 

Her  kisses  in  thy  weeping  eye ; 
She  spreads  the  red  leaves  of  thy  lips, 

That  in  their  buds  yet  blushing  lie : 
She  'gainst  those  mother  diamonds  tries 
The  points  of  her  young  eagle's  eyes." 

Excuse  soliloquy. 

E.  Go  on,  go  on:  I  can  hear  the  bluebird  just  the  same. 

C.  I  am  glad  we  are  at  the  sand-bank.  Radiantly  here  the 
brook  parts  across  the  shallows  its  ever-rippling  tresses  of 
golden  light.  It  steals  away  my  battered  senses  as  I  gaze 
therein;  and,  if  I  remember  me,  'tis  in  some  murmuring 

line: — 

te Thus  swam  away  my  thoughts  on  thee, 

And  in  thy  joyful  ecstasy 
Flowed  with  thy  waters  to  thy  sea." 

E.  Let  us  to  the  ancient  woods!1  I  say,  let  us  value  the 
1  The  date  of  this  walk  in  the  woods  was  October,  1848. 

[138] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

woods, — they  are  full  of  solicitations.  My  wood-lot  has  no 
price;  I  could  not  think  of  selling  it  for  the  money  I  gave 
for  it.  Full  of  mysterious  values, — what  forms,  what  colors, 
what  powers !  null  to  our  ignorance,  but  opening  fast  enough 
to  wit.  One  thing  our  Concord  wants, — a  Berkshire  brook, 
now  beside  the  road  and  now  under  it,  which  cheers  the 
traveller  for  miles  with  its  loud  voice. 

C.  But  here  is  our  Brook  itself,  a  petted  darling  of  the 
meadows — wild  minstrel  of  an  ancient  song,  poured  through 
our  vales  for  ever.  The  sands  of  Pactolus  were  not  more  golden 
than  these :  and  black  are  the  eddying  pools  where  the  old  ex 
perienced  trout  sleeps  on  his  oars.  "As  hurries  the  water  to 
the  Sea,  so  seeks  the  Soul  its  Universe.1'  And  this  is  our  May 
flower,  sweet  as  Cytherea's  breath;  in  yonder  lowlands  grows 
the  climbing  fern.  Simple  flowers !  yet  was  not  Solomon  in  all 
his  glory  arrayed  like  one  of  these.  Soon  come  the  water 
mouse-ear,  typha  or  reed-mace;  Drosera  rotundifolia,  Solo 
mon's  seal,  violets  of  all  sorts,  bulbous  arethrum,  yellow  lily, 
dwarf  cornel,  lousewort,  yellow  Star  of  Bethlehem,  Polygala 
paucifolia,  Arum  triphyllum,  cohosh, — 

E.  O  hush!  hush !  what  names!  Hadst  thou  spoken  to  me  of 
Violet,  that  child  of  beauty!  of  which  your  poet  Street  says, — 

"Where  its  long  rings  unwinds  the  fern, 

The  violet,  nestling  low, 
Casts  back  the  white  lid  of  its  urn, 
Its  purple  streaks  to  show." 

C.  Yes,  and  he  adds, — 

[139] 


THOREAU 

"  Beautiful  blossom !  first  to  rise 
And  smile  beneath  Spring's  wakening  skies ; 

The  courier  of  the  band 
Of  coming  flowers,  —  what  feelings  sweet 
Flow  as  the  silvery  germ  we  meet 

Upon  its  needle- wand!" 

CONANTUM 

C.  Let  us  now  go  forward  to  Conantum,  that  wide  tract 
named  by  our  Henry  from  its  owner,  old  Eben  Conant, — as 
good  as  the  domains  of  royalty,  and  yet  the  possession  of 
that  ancient  New  England  farmer. 

E.  From  the  bridge  I  see  only  a  simple  field,  with  its  few 
old  apple-trees.  It  rises  neatly  to  the  west. 

C.  When  we  traverse  the  whole  of  the  long  seigniorage,  I 
think  you  will  agree  that  this  is  a  good  place  for  a  better 
than  Montaigne- chateau. 

T.  There  is  the  stake-driver  "pump-a-gawing"  again.  From 
this  corner  to  Fairhaven  Bay  the  domain  extends,  with  not 
an  ounce  of  cultivated  soil.  First  a  tract  of  woodland,  with 
its  pleasant  wood-paths,  its  deep  and  mossy  swamp,  where 
owls  and  foxes  have  holes,  and  the  long  lichens  sway  their 
soft  green  tresses  from  the  rotting  spruce.1 

C.  Behind  yon  old  barn  stands  the  original  farmhouse;  the 
mouldering  shell  has  ripened  birth  and  death,  marriage  feasts 
and  funeral  tables,  where  now  the  careless  flies  only  buzz  and 
the  century-old  crow  alights  on  the  broad  roof  that  almost 
touches  the  ground.  The  windows  are  gone,  the  door  half 
1  Holden's  Swamp,  where  grows  Kalmia  glauca. 

[140] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

ruined,  the  chimney  down,  the  roof  falling  in,  —  sans  eyes, 
sans  ears,  sans  life,  sans  everything.  Not  even  a  contempla 
tive  cat  shakes  his  irresponsive  sides  in  this  solitude,  and  the 
solid  grass  grows  up  to  the  edges  of  the  enormous  door-stone. 
Our  ancestors  took  a  pride  in  acquiring  the  largest  and  flat 
test  rock  possible  to  lay  before  the  hospitable  sill.  We  do 
get  unscrupulously  rid  of  the  ancestral  mansion,  and  the  pot 
of  beans  of  the  careful  grandson  bakes  upon  the  architectural 
desolation  of  "my  grandpapa."  Ascend  this  height,  and  you 
will  see  (part  second)  the  lovely  valley  of  the  Concord  at 
your  feet, — 

"See  where  the  winding  vale  its  lavish  stores  irriguous  spreads." 

THOMSON. 

E.  There  is  Musketaquit,  the  grass-ground  river;  a  goodly 
view,  and  noble  walking ! 

C.  Let  us  continue  on  a  few  steps  more,  till  we  reach  the 
little  meadow, — a  natural  arboretum,  where  grow  the  black 
ash,  the  bass  and  the  cohosh;  cornels,  viburnums,  sassafras, 
and  arethusas. 

E.  "  Each  spot  where  lilies  prank  their  state 
Has  drunk  the  life-blood  of  the  great ; 
The  violets  yon  field  which  stain 
Are  moles  of  beauties  Time  hath  slain." 

So  sings  Omar  Chiam.  Sitting  in  this  steep  Park  of  Conantum, 
always  the  same  regret.  Is  all  this  beauty  to  perish?  shall 
none  remake  this  sun  and  wind, — the  sky-blue  river,  the 
river-blue  sky? 

[141] 


THOREAU 

C.  How  the  earliest  kiss  of  June  will  heap  these  trees  with 
leaves,  and  make  land  and  orchard,  hillside  and  garden,  ver 
dantly  attractive.  This  great  domain,  all  but  one  meadow,  is 
under  the  holding  of  one  old  prudent  husbandman;  and  here 
is  an  old  cellar-hole,  where  in  front  yet  grows  the  vivacious 
lilac,  soon  to  be  in  profuse  flower, — a  plant  to  set!  It  has 
outlived  man  and  dog,  hen  and  pig,  house  and  wife;  "all,  all 
are  gone"  except  the  "old  familiar  face"  of  the  delightsome 
lilac.  And  now  we  stand  on  the  verge  of  broad  Fairhaven, 
and  below  us  falls  the  scaly  frost-abraded  precipice  to  the 
pitch-pines  and  walnuts  that  stand  resigned  to  their  lower 
avocations.  There  is  about  us  here  that  breath  of  wildness, 
in  whose  patronage  the  good  Indians  dwelt;  there  is  around 
us  in  these  herbaceous  odors,  in  these  lustral  skies,  all  that 
earthly  life  hath  ever  known  of  beauty  or  of  joy.  Thus  sings 
the  lark  as  he  springs  from  his  nest  in  the  grassy  meadow; 
thus  in  the  barberry  hedge,  along  the  gray  and  precarious 
wall,  the  melodious  song-sparrow  chants  in  his  brownish 
summer-suit  and  that  brevet  of  honor  on  his  breast,  the  black 
rosette,  constituting  him  "Conantum's  Malibran."  It  is  Time's 
holiday,  the  festival  of  June,  the  leafy  June,  the  flower-sped 
June,  the  bird-singing  June, 

"And  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes." 

T.  Let  us  get  a  good  look  from  these  cliffs  at  Baker  Farm 
that  lies  on  that  opposite  shore.  There  is  Clematis  Brook, 
Blue  Heron  Pond,  and  Mount  Misery. 

[142] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

OLD     SUDBURY     INNi 

C.  There  you  have  it, — Howe's  Tavern,  on  the  old  Worces 
ter  turnpike !  I  was  never  here  before, — au  revoir!  A  new  place 
is  good  property,  if  we  have  the  prospect  of  owning  it,— 
hey,  Betty  Martin?  Tis  one  of  the  ancient  taverns  of  the 
noble  old  Commonwealth:  observe  the  date,  1719,  painted  on 
the  sign.  From  that  to  this  the  same  family  have  had  it  in 
their  keeping;  and  many  a  glass  has  been  drunk  and  paid  for 
at  the  bar,  whose  defence,  you  observe,  moves  curiously  up 
and  down  like  a  portcullis;  and  the  room  is  "ceiled"  all 
round,  instead  of  plastered. 

E.  There  is  a  seigniorial  property  attached  to  it, — some 
hundred  acres;  and  see  the  old  buttresses  of  time-channelled 
oak  along  the  road,  in  front,  that  must  have  been  set  at  the 
same  time  with  the  inn.  A  spacious  brook  canters  behind  the 
house;  yonder  is  a  noble  forest;  and  there  above  us,  Nobscot, 
our  nearest  mountain.  Indeed,  the  tract  across  to  Boone's  Pond 
and  Sudbury  is  all  a  piece  of  wild  wood.  Come,  away  for  Nob 
scot  !  taking  the  sandy  path  behind  the  barn.  Do  you  see  that 
strange,  embowered  roof,  peeping  out  of  its  great  vase  of 
apple-blossoms?  for  this,  O  man  of  many  cares!  is  the  twenty- 
third  of  May,  and  just  as  much  Blossom -day  as  ever  was. 

C.  I  see  the  peeping  chimney, — romance  itself.  May  I  hope 
never  to  know  the  name  of  the  remarkable  genius  who  dwells 
therein  ? 

T.  Very  proper,  no  doubt, — Tubs  or  Scrubs. 

1  The  Wayside  Inn. 

[143] 


THOREAU 

C.  Believe  it  not,  enemy  to  Blossom-day  romance.  My  soul 
whispers  of  a  fair,  peculiar  region  behind  those  embracing 
bouquets. 

T.  Where  one  should  surely  find  an  anxious  cook  and  a 
critical  family. 

C.  Hush !  hush !  traduce  not  the  venerable  groves.  Here,  or 
in  some  such  devoted  solitude,  should  dwell  the  Muse,  and 
compose  a  treatise  on  the  worship  of  Dryads. 

T.  Dry  as  powder-post.  Have  you  seen  the  scarlet  tanager? 

C.  No, — the  Puseyite  unmistakable  among  our  birds,— 
true  high-church  scarlet.  Hear!  the  pewee's  soft,  lisping  pee- 
a-wee!  Now  as  we  rise,  and  leave  the  splendid  chestnut  forest, 
the  view  opens.  Nobscot  is  a  true  but  low  mountain,  and  these 
small  creatures  give  the  best  look-off.  I  love  the  broad,  healthy, 
new-springing  pastures,  ornamented  with  apple-tree  pyramids, 
the  pastoral  architecture  of  the  cow;  the  waving  saxifrage  and 
delicate  Houstonia,  that  spring-beauty;  and  the  free,  untram 
melled  air  of  the  mountains, — it  never  swept  the  dusty  plain. 
There 's  our  Cliff  and  Meeting-house  in  Concord,  and  Barrett's 
Hill l  and  Anursnuc;  next  comes  high  Lincoln  with  its  gleam 
ing  spires,  and  modest  Way  land,  low  in  the  grass;  the  Great 
Sudbury  Meadows  (sap-green)  and  Framingham  and  Natick. 
How  many  dark  belts  of  pines  stalk  across  this  bosky  land 
scape  !  like  the  traditions  of  the  old  Sagamores,  who  fished  in 
yonder  Long  Pond  (Lake  Cochituate)  that  now  colors  Boston 
with  reddish  water  that  a  country  boy  might  bathe  in,  if  hard 
pushed. 

1  What  is  now  called  Nashawtuc,  by  its  Indian  name,  like  Anursnuc. 

[  144  ] 


WALKS     AND    TALKS 

E.  I  faintly  hear  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell, — I 
suppose,  of  Framingham. 

T.  As  the  country -wife  beats  her  brass  pan  to  collect  her  bees. 

E.  Our  landscape  is  democratic ;  the  buildings  not  gathered 
into  one  city  or  baronial  town,  but  equally  scattered,  leading 
up  to  the  white  steeples,  round  which  a  town  clusters  in  every 
place  where  six  roads  meet,  or  where  a  river  branches  or  falls. 
In  the  landscape  to-day  is  found  the  magic  of  color.  The  world 
is  all  opal,  and  these  ethereal  tints  the  mountains  wear  have 
the  finest  effects  of  music  on  us.  Mountains  are  great  poets, 
and  one  glance  at  this  fine  New  Hampshire  range  of  Watatic, 
Monadnoc,  Peterboro"*,  and  Uncannoonnuk,  undoes  a  deal  of 
prose  and  reinstates  poor,  wronged  men  in  their  rights;  life 
and  society  begin  to  be  illuminated  and  transparent,  and  we 
generalize  boldly  and  well.  Space  is  felt  as  a  privilege.  There 
is  some  pinch  and  narrowness  to  the  best.  Here  we  laugh  and 
leap  to  see  the  world ;  and  what  amplitudes  it  has  of  meadow, 
stream,  upland,  forest,  and  sea!  which  yet  are  but  lanes  and 
crevices  to  the  great  space  in  which  the  world  swims  like  a 
cockboat  on  the  ocean.  There  below  are  those  farms,  but  the 
life  of  farmers  is  unpoetic,  The  life  of  labor  does  not  make 
men,  but  drudges.  T  is  pleasant,  as  the  habits  of  all  poets  may 
testify,  to  think  of  great  proprietors,  to  reckon  this  grove  we 
walk  in  as  a  park  of  the  noble;  but  a  continent  cut  up  into 
ten-acre  lots  is  not  attractive.  The  farmer  is  an  enchanted 
laborer,  who,  after  toiling  his  brains  out,  sacrificing  thought, 
religion,  love,  hope,  courage,  to  toil,  turns  out  a  bankrupt,  as 
well  as  the  shopman. 

[145] 


THOREAU 

C.  I  see  I  must  meditate  an  ode  to  be  called,  "Adieu,  my 
Johnny-cake."  Ay,  ay;  hasty-pudding  for  the  masculine  eye, 
chickens  and  jellies  for  girls. 

E.  Yonder,  on  that  hill  is  Marlboro1,  a  town  (in  autumn, 
at  least,  when  I  visited  it)  that  wears  a  rich  appearance  of 
rustic  plenty  and  comfort;  ample  farms,  good  houses,  profuse 
yellow  apple-heaps,  pumpkin  mountains  in  every  enclosure, 
orchards  left  ungathered,  and,  in  the  Grecian  piazzas  of  the 
houses,  squashes  ripening  between  the  columns.  Gates's,  where 
Dr.  Channing  and  Jonathan  Phillips  used  to  resort,  is  no  longer 
a  public  house.  At  Cutting's  were  oats  for  the  horse,  but  no 
dinner  for  men;  so  we  went,  you  and  I,  to  a  chestnut  grove 
and  an  old  orchard  for  our  fare. 

C.  So  our  Alcott  might  have  dined  in  his  retreat  at  Fruit- 
lands.  But  for  an  inscription  upon  our  Wayside  Inn,  Howe's 
Tavern,  here  are  lines:  — 

Who  set  thine  oaks 

Along  the  road  ? 

Was  it  not  Nature's  hand, 

Old  Sudbury  Inn?  for  here  I  stand 

And  wonder  at  the  sight ; 
Thy  oaks  are  my  delight : 

As  are  the  elms, 
So  boldly  branching  to  the  sky, 
And  the  interminable  woods, 
Old  Inn,  that  wash  thee  nigh, 

On  every  side, 
With  green  and  rustling  tide. 

[146] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

Such  oaks !  such  elms ! 

And  the  contenting  woods, 

And  Nobscot  near ; 

Old  Inn !  't  is  here 

That  I,  creature  of  moods, 

A  haunt  could  find 

Well  suited  to  the  custom  of  my  mind. 

Old  Sudbury  Inn !  most  homely  seat 
Where  Nature  hath  her  frugal  meals, 

And  studies  to  outwit 
What  thy  inside  reveals ; 
Long  mayst  thou  be 
More  than  a  match  for  her  and  me ! 

E.  And  so  it  comes  every  year,  this  lovely  Blossom-day! 

The  cup  of  life  is  not  so  shallow 

That  we  have  drained  the  best, 
That  all  the  wines  at  once  we  swallow, 

And  lees  make  all  the  rest. 

Maids  of  as  soft  a  bloom  shall  marry, 

As  Hymen  yet  hath  blessed, 
And  fairer  forms  are  in  the  quarry 

Than  Angelo  released. 

C.  And  to-day  the  air  is  spotted  with  the  encouraging  rig 
marole  of  the  bobolink, — that  buttery,  vivacious,  fun-may- 
take-me  cornucopia  of  song.  Once  to  hear  his  "larripee,  larripee, 
buttery,  scattery,  wittery,  pittery";  some  yellow,  some  black 
feathers,  a  squeeze  of  air,  and  this  summer  warming  song! 
The  bobolink  never  knew  cold,  and  never  could, — the  musi 
cian  of  blossoms.  Hark !  the  veery's  liquid  strain,  with  trilling 

[147] 


THOREAU 

cadence;  his  holy  brother,  the  wood-thrush,  pitches  his  flute- 
notes  in  the  pine  alleys,  where  at  twilight  is  heard  the  strange 
prophecy  of  the  whippoorwill.  The  oven-bird  beats  his  brass 
witcher-twitcher  in  the  heated  shades  of  noon,  mixed  with  the 
feathery  roll-call  of  the  partridge.  As  we  take  our  nooning,  I 
will  recall  some  lines  on  this  famous  bird. 

THE     PARTRIDGE 

Shot  of  the  wood,  from  thy  ambush  low, — 

Bolt  off  the  dry  leaves  flying, 
With  a  whirring  spring  like  an  Indian's  bow, 

Thou  speed' st  when  the  year  is  dying; 
And  thy  neat  gray  form  darts  whirling  past, 
So  silent  all,  as  thou  fliest  fast, 
Snapping  a  leaf  from  the  copses  red ; 
Our  native  bird,  in  the  woodlands  bred. 

I  have  trembled  a  thousand  times, 

As  thy  bolt  through  the  thicket  was  rending, 

Wondering  at  thee  in  the  autumn  chimes, 
When  thy  brother's  soft  wings  were  bending 

Swift  to  the  groves  of  the  spicy  south ; 

Where  the  orange  melts  in  the  zephyr's  mouth, 

And  the  azure  sunshine  humors  the  air, 

And  Winter  ne'er  sleeps  in  his  pallid  chair. 

And  thy  whirring  wings  I  hear, 

When  the  colored  ice  is  warming 
The  twigs  of  the  forest  sere, 

While  the  northern  wind  a-storming 
Draws  cold  as  death  round  the  Irish  hut, 
That  lifts  its  blue  smoke  in  the  railroad  cut ; 

[148] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

And  the  hardy  chopper  sits  dreaming  warm, 
And  thou  and  I  are  alone  in  the  storm. 

Brave  bird  of  my  woodland  haunt, 

Good  child  of  the  autumn  dreary ! 
Drum  of  my  city  and  bass  of  my  chaunt, 

With  thy  rushing  music  cheery  ! 
Desert  not  my  bowers  for  the  southern  flowers, 
Nor  my  pale  north  woods  for  her  ruby  hours ; 
Let  us  bide  the  rude  blast  and  the  ringing  hail, 
Till  the  violets  peep  on  the  Indian's  trail. 

TO    WHITE     POND 

T.  Above  our  heads  the  night-hawk  rips;  and,  soaring  over 
the  tallest  pine,  the  fierce  hen-harrier  screams  and  hisses;  cow, 
cow,  cow,  sounds  the  timorous  cuckoo:  thus  our  cheerful  and 
pleasant  birds  do  sing  along  else  silent  paths,  strewn  with  the 
bright  and  bluest  violets,  with  Houstonias,  anemones,  and 
cinque-foils.  Academies  of  Music  and  Schools  of  Design,  truly ! 
and  to-day  on  all  the  young  oaks  shall  be  seen  their  bright 
crimson  leaves,  each  in  itself  as  good  as  a  rich  and  delicate 
flower;  and  the  sky  bends  o'er  us  with  its  friendly  face  like 
Jerusalem  delivered. 

E.  And  Mrs.  Jones  and  Miss  Brown — 

T.  No,  indeed :  I  declare  it  boldly,  let  us  leave  out  man  in 
such  days;  his  history  may  be  written  at  nearly  any  future 
period,  in  dull  weather. 

C.  Yet  hath  the  same  toiling  knave  in  yonder  field  a  kind 
of  grim  advantage. 

T.  The  grime  I  perceive,  and  hear  the  toads  sing. 
[149] 


THOREAU 

E.  Yet  the  poet  says, — 

"Not  in  their  houses  stand  the  stars, 
But  o'er  the  pinnacles  of  thine." 

T.  And  also  listen  to  my  poet :  — 

"Go  thou  to  thy  learned  task, 
I  stay  with  the  flowers  of  Spring ; 

Do  thou  of  the  Ages  ask, 
What  to  me  the  Hours  will  bring." 

Oh,  the  soft,  mellow  green  of  the  swamp-sides !  Oh,  the  sweet, 
tender  green  of  the  pastures!  Do  you  observe  how  like  the 
colors  of  currant-jelly  are  the  maple-keys  where  the  sun  shines 
through  them  ?  I  suppose  to  please  you  I  ought  to  be  unhappy, 
but  the  contrast  is  too  strong. 

C.  See  the  Rana  palustris  bellying  the  world  in  the  warm 
pool,  and  making  up  his  froggy  mind  to  accept  the  season 
for  lack  of  a  brighter;  and  will  not  a  gossiping  dialogue  be 
tween  two  comfortable  brown  thrashers  cure  the  heartache  of 
half  the  world  ?  Hear  the  charming  song-sparrow,  the  Prima- 
donna  of  the  wall-side;  and  the  meadow-lark's  sweet,  timid, 
yet  gushing  lay,  hymns  the  praise  of  the  Divine  Beauty.  And 
—  were  you  ever  in  love? 

T.  Was  that  the  squeak  of  a  night-hawk  ? 

C.  Yes,  flung  beyond  the  thin  wall  of  nature,  whereon  thy 
fowls  and  beasts  are  spasmodically  plastered,  and  swamped  so 
perfectly  in  one  of  thy  own  race  as  to  forget  this  illusory 
showman's  wax  figures? 

T.  A  stake-driver!  pump-a-gaw,  pump-a-gaw,  like  an  old 

[  150] 


WALKS    AND     TALKS 

wooden  pump.  They  call  the  bittern  butter-bump  in  some 
countries.  Everything  is  found  in  nature,  even  the  stuff  of 
which  thou  discoursest  thus  learnedly. 

C.  I  would  it  were  not,  O  Epaminondas  Holly! 

T.  What,  sir!  and  have  you  had  a  touch  of  that  chicken- 
pox? 

C.  I  shall  not  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag. 

T.  Go  in  peace!  I  must  do  my  best  and  catch  that  green- 
throated  gentleman.  To  take  frogs  handsomely  requires  a 
quick  eye  and  a  fine  touch,  like  high  art.  They  dive  under 
the  sludge;  their  colors  are  of  the  water  and  the  grass, 
chameleon-like.  How  ridiculous  is  yonder  colt,  the  color  of 
sugar  gingerbread,  set  upon  four  long  legs  and  swishing  a  bald 
tail !  and  how  he  laughs  at  us  men-folks  nibbling  our  crackers 
and  herring!  May  our  wit  be  as  dry  as  our  matinee. 

E.  Yesterday  was  Spring:  to-day  beginneth  the  second  les 
son,  what  doth  Summer  typify? 

C.  Hot  ovens,  a  baking-pan,  the  taking  our  turn  at  the 
spit.  Grasshoppers  creak  over  dry  fields,  and  devilVneedles 
whizz  across  your  hat  as  if  they  were  scorched.  Black  snakes 
conclude  it  is  pretty  comfortable,  considering  January  in  the 
distance.  Oh !  the  heat  is  like  solid  beds  of  feathers. 

E.  I  think  you  said  we  were  going  to  White  Pond? 

C.  A  favorable  July  afternoon's  plunge;  the  river  flashes  in 
the  sun  like  a  candle.  (This  little  forget-me-not  of  ours  is  as 
pure  a  blue  as  the  German's.)  Ants,  bees,  millers,  June  flies, 
horse  flies,  open  shop;  woodchucks  set  up  at  the  mouths  of 
their  holes,  and  our  learned  advocate,  the  Mephitis  chinga, 

[151] 


THOREAU 

probes  the  wood-roads  for  beetles;  robins,  bull- frogs,  bobo 
links,  Maryland  yellow-throats,  and  oven-birds  perform  operas 
all  day  long;  the  brave  senecio  spots  the  sides  of  ditches  with 
its  dusky  gold.  How  sweet  its  root  smells! 

E.  This  is  a  right  pleasant  stroll  along  the  Assabet. 

C.  First-class!  The  caterpillars  make  minced-meat  of  the 
wild  cherries.  Nature  does  so  love  to  pet  worms, — an  odd 
taste.  The  great  iris  is  now  perfect,  and  the  maple-leaved  vi 
burnum, — two  flower-belles;  the  turtles  dream  at  their  ease, 
with  but  their  noses  above  water  among  the  floating-heart  and 
potamogetons, — a  good  investment  in  a  blaze.  Verdure,  ver 
dure, — meadows,  copses,  foregrounds  and  distances.  Showers 
raise  up  their  heads  in  the  west  to  catch  the  leafy  prospect. 

E.  Is  it  not  against  the  dignity  of  man  that  a  little  light 
and  heat  can  so  despoil  him? 

C.  See  that  nest  of  breams,  the  parents  swimming  over  it, 
— some  fun  now  in  being  tickled  by  a  cool  stream.  And  there 
lives  a  lordly  baron,  a  great  manorial  seignior,  with  a  private 
road  to  his  castle  of  Belvoir,  as  good  a  king  as  can  be  found 
in  Christendom.  We  had  best  stop  at  Duganne's  spring  and 
get  a  drink :  it  is  as  cold  as  charity.  The  swallows  dart  away 
over  the  river  and  Nut-meadow  Brook,  but  a  few  feet  above 
the  surface,  taking  insects;  the  turtles  have  writ  their  slow 
history  on  this  Duganne  sand-bank.  There  stretches  the  old 
Marlboro'  road,  and  now,  gleaming  beneath  the  trees,  you 
may  see  the  water  of  White  Pond. 

E.  T  is  not  as  large  as  Walden:  the  water  looks  of  the  like 
purity. 

[  152  ] 


WALKS    AND    TALKS 

C.  Yes,  't  is  a  pretty  little  Indian  basin,  lovely  as  Walden 
once  was,  and  no  pen  could  ever  purely  describe  its  beauties. 
We  can  almost  see  the  sachem  in  his  canoe  in  the  shadowy 
cove. 

E.  How  wonderful,  as  we  make  the  circuit  of  the  shore, 
are  the  reflections!  but  once  we  saw  them  in  autumn,  and 
then  the  marvellous  effect  of  the  colored  woods  held  us  al 
most  to  the  going  down  of  the  sun.  The  waters,  slightly 
rippled,  took  their  proper  character  from  the  pines,  birches, 
and  few  oaks  which  composed  the  grove;  and  the  submarine 
wood  seemed  made  of  Lombardy  poplar,  with  such  delicious 
green,  stained  by  gleams  of  mahogany  from  the  oaks,  and 
streaks  of  white  from  the  birches,  every  moment  more  excel 
lent:  it  was  the  world  through  a  prism.  In  walking  with  you 
we  may  see  what  was  never  before  shown  to  the  eye  of  man. 
And  yet  for  how  many  ages  has  this  pretty  wilderness  of 
White  Pond  received  the  clouds  and  sun  into  its  transparency, 
and  woven  each  day  new  webs  of  birch  and  pine;  shooting 
out  wilder  angles,  and  more  fantastical  crossings  of  the  coarse 
threads,  which  in  the  water  have  such  momentary  elegance! 

C.  What  intolerable  usurpations  of  the  Past  do  we  see !  not 
in  Nature,  which  never  did  oppress  the  heart  that  loved  her, 
—but  in  literature.  See  how  those  great  hoaxes,  the  Homers 
and  Shakespeares,  are  hindering  the  books  and  the  men  of 
to-day!  You  people  who  have  been  pedagogues  scarcely  tol 
erate  the  good  things  in  the  moderns.  There  is  a  versifier  of 
ours  who  has  made  some  accurate  notices  of  our  native  things, 
— Alfred  Street.  I  fear  you  must  let  me  give  you  a  proof  of 

[153] 


THOREAU 

this, — nothing  from  Herrick.  Mate  me,  if  you  will,  these 


"Yon  piny  knoll,  thick-covered  with  the  brown 
Dead  fringes,  in  the  sunshine's  bathing  flood 
Looks  like  dark  gold." 

"  The  thicket  by  the  roadside  casts  its  cool 
Black  breadth  of  shade  across  the  heated  dust." 

" These  thistle-downs,  through  the  rich 
Bright  blue,  quick  float,  like  gliding  stars,  and  then 
Touching  the  sunshine,  flash  and  seem  to  melt 
Within  the  dazzling  brilliance." 

"  Another  sunset,  crouching  low 

Upon  a  rising  pile  of  cloud, 
Bathes  deep  the  island  with  its  glow, 
Then  shrinks  behind  its  gloomy  shroud." 

E.  He  is  a  good  colorist. 
C.  Not  less  acute  and  retentive  is  his  ear: — 
"That  flying  harp,  the  honey-bee." 

"The  spider's  clock 
Ticked  in  some  crevice  of  the  rock." 

"The  light  click  of  the  milk-weed's  bursting  pods." 

"The  spider  lurks 

A  close-crouched  ball ;  out-darting,  as  a  hum 
Dooms  its  trapped  prey,  and,  looping  quick  its  threads,, 
Chains  into  helplessness  those  buzzing  wings." 

"The  wood-tick  taps  its  tiny  muffled  drum 
To  the  shrill  cricket-fife." 
[  154] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

E.  He  saw  peculiarities  no  one  else  describes. 
C.  Yes, — exquisite  touches  of  creation  made  for  his  in 
sight:— 

"The  whizzing  of  the  humming-bird's  swift  wings 
Spinning  grey,  glittering  circles  round  its  shape." 

"Yon  aster,  that  displayed 
A  brief  while  since  its  lustrous  bloom,  has  now, 
Around  the  shells  that  multiply  its  life, 
Woven  soft  downy  plumes." 

"The  gossamer  motionless  hung  from  the  spray 
Where  the  weight  of  the  dewdrops  had  torn  it  away, 
And  the  seed  of  the  thistle,  that  whisper  could  swing 
Aloft  on  its  wheel,  as  though  borne  on  a  wing, 
When  the  yellow-bird  severed  it,  dipping  across, 
Its  soft  plumes  unruffled,  fell  down  on  the  moss." 

Does  the  mullein  (Thapsus  verbascum)  grow  in  England? 

E.  I  do  not  remember  it  there,  but  have  heard  that  it 
grows  on  Mount  Pelion,  with  its  architectural  spire,  too  con 
spicuous  to  be  forgotten. 

C.  Street  notices  in  one  of  his  lines  something 

"Beside  yon  mullein's  braided  stalk;" 

and  he  has  a  picture  of  the  early  fern,  "uncrumpling"  as 
somebody  says, — 

"From  the  earth  the  fern 
Thrusts  its  green,  close-curled  wheel;" 

and  he  has  a  movement  to  record: — 

"The  snail 
Creeps  in  its  twisted  fortress." 

[  155  ] 


THOREAU 

Sometimes  I  have  thought  Herrick  the  best  of  English  poets, 
—a  true  Greek  in  England.  He  was  a  much  better  Grecian 
than  Milton,  who  is  too  much  like  my  uncle,  Dr.  Channing. 

E.  The  landscape  before  us  would  give  Herrick  all  he 
needed.  Leaving  White  Pond,  and  passing  by  that  dismal 
dell  recommended  by  you  as  a  valuable  preserve  for  shooting 
owls,  and  well  adapted  for  self-murder,  we  have  come  over  a 
hill  of  the  right  New  Hampshire  slope,  and  now  are  among 
good  rude  landscapes  of  the  Okefenokee  or  Quinquinabosset 
type, — hitherto  un walked  by  our  Saturday  afternoon  pro 
fessors. 

C.  I  once  thought  there  were  some  occupations  that  could 
be  taken  up  by  amateurs;  but  no;  even  walking  cannot  be;  it 
must  be  done  by  professors,  as  you  say.  But  what  say  you  of 
"Festus," — Bailey's  poem?  I  can  repeat  you  a  few  of  his  lines, 
— classic,  and  as  good  as  those  of  your  old  dramatists. 

' f  How  can  the  beauty  of  material  things 
So  win  the  heart  and  work  upon  the  mind, 
Unless  like-natured  with  them?" 

"When  the  soul  sweeps  the  future  like  a  glass, 
And  coming  things,  full-freighted  with  our  fates, 
Jut  out,  dark,  on  the  offing  of  the  mind." 

"The  shadow  hourly  lengthens  o'er  my  brain, 
And  peoples  all  its  pictures  with  thyself." 

"  And  lasses  with  sly  eyes, 

And  the  smile  settling  in  their  sun-flecked  cheeks, 
Like  noon  upon  the  mellow  apricot." 

[156] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

"To  the  high  air  sunshine  and  cloud  are  one." 
"Friendship  has  passed  me  like  a  ship  at  sea.*' 
" The  wave  is  never  weary  of  the  wind. 
For  marble  is  a  shadow  weighed  with  mind. 

The  last  high,  upward  slant  of  sun  upon  the  trees, 
Like  a  dead  soldier's  sword  upon  his  pall." 

E.  And  that  is  a  pretty  little  poem  of  Swedenborg's,  the 
beginning  of  a  book,  written  in  prose:  "The  ship  is  in  the 
harbor;  the  sails  are  swelling;  the  east  wind  blows;  let  us 
weigh  anchor,  and  put  forth  to  sea." 

C.  Which  of  us  would  not  choose  to  be  one  of  these  insects, 
— rosebugs  of  splendid  fate,  living  on  grape-flowers,  apple- 
trees  and  roses,  and  dying  of  an  apoplexy  of  sweet  sensations 
in  these  golden  middle  days  of  July?  Hail,  vegetable  gods! 
What  saith  your  Adshed  of  the  melon  ?  for  criticism  needs  a 
sop  to  Cerberus:  — 

"  Color,  taste  and  smell,  smaragdus,  honey  and  musk, 
Amber  for  the  tongue,  for  the  eye  a  picture  rare ; 
If  you  cut  the  fruit  in  slices,  every  slice  a  crescent  fair ; 
If  you  have  it  whole,  the  full  harvest  moon  is  there." 

E.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  chide  the  man  who 
should  ruin  himself  to  buy  a  patch  of  well-timbered  oak-land ; 
I  admire  the  taste  which  makes  the  avenue  to  a  house  (were 
the  house  never  so  small)  through  a  wood,  as  this  disposes 
the  mind  of  the  host  and  guest  to  the  deference  due.  We 
want  deference;  and  when  we  come  to  realize  that  thing  me- 

[157] 


THOREAU 

chanically,  we  want  acres.  Scatter  this  hot  and  crowded  popu 
lation  at  respectful  distances  each  from  each,  over  the  vacant 
world.  The  doctor  and  his  friends  fancied  it  was  the  cattle 
made  all  this  wide  space  necessary;  and  that  if  there  were  no 
cows. to  pasture,  less  land  would  suffice.  But  a  cow  does  not 
require  so  much  land  as  my  eyes  require  betwixt  me  and  my 
neighbor. 

C.  Man  fits  into  Nature  like  a  seal  in  its  ring.  Clap  down 
in  the  middle  of  to-day's  pudding  and  eat  thereof.  They  whip 
lads  at  school  for  looking  off  their  books;  despatch  your 
Sunday  plate  of  broth.  The  poet  asks,— 

"Where  is  Skymir,  giant  Skymir? 
Come,  transplant  the  woods  for  me ! 
Scoop  up  yonder  aged  ash, 
Centennial  fir,  old  boundary  pine, 
Beech  by  Indian  warriors  blazed, 
Maples  tapped  by  Indian  girls, 
Oaks  that  grew  in  the  Dark  Ages  : 
Heedful  bring  them,  set  them  straight 
In  sifted  soil  before  my  porch ! 
Now  turn  the  river  on  their  roots, 
That  no  leaf  wilt,  or  leading  shoot 
Drop  his  tall-erected  plume." 

E.  I  admire  here  the  waving  meadow,  the  iron-gray  house, 
just  the  color  of  the  granite  rock  below,  the  paths  of  the 
thicket,  the  wide,  straggling,  wild  orchard,  in  which  Nature 
has  deposited  every  possible  flavor  in  the  apples  of  different 
trees,  —  whole  zones  and  climates  she  has  concentrated  into 
apples.  We  think  of  the  old  benefactors  who  have  conquered 

[  158  J 


WALKS     AND     TALKS 

these  fields;  of  the  old  man,  who  is  just  dying  in  these  days, 
who  has  absorbed  such  volumes  of  sunshine,  like  a  huge  melon 
or  pumpkin  in  the  sun,  who  has  owned  in  every  part  of  Con 
cord  a  wood-lot,  until  he  could  not  find  the  boundaries  of 
them,  and  never  saw  their  interiors. 

But,  we  say,  where  is  he  who  is  to  save  the  present  mo 
ment,  and  cause  that  this  beauty  be  not  lost?  Shakespeare 
saw  no  better  heaven  or  earth,  but  had  the  power  and  need 
to  sing,  and  seized  the  dull,  ugly  England  (ugly  to  this),  and 
made  it  amiable  and  enviable  to  all  reading  men;  and  now 
we  are  forced  into  likening  this  to  that;  whilst,  if  one  of  us 
had  the  chanting  constitution,  that  land  would  be  no  more 
heard  of.  But  let  us  have  space  enough;  let  us  have  wild 
grapes,  and  rock-maples  with  tubs  of  sugar;  let  us  have  huge 
straggling  orchards;  let  us  have  the  Ebba  Hubbard1  pear, 
cider-mills  with  tons  of  pomace, — walnut  and  oak,  peat, 
cows,  horses,  Paddies,  carts,  and  sleds. 

C.  That  good  Welsh  poet,  Henry  Vaughan,  said, — 

"O  knit  me  that  am  crumbled  dust." 

E.  Oh,  certainly !  Oaks  and  horse-chestnuts  are  quite  obso 
lete,  and  the  Horticultural  Society  are  about  to  recommend 
the  introduction  of  the  cabbage  as  a  shade-tree;  so  much 
more  comprehensible  and  convenient,  all  grown  from  the 
seed  upward  to  its  extreme  generous  crumple,  within  thirty 

1  Ebenezer  Hubbard  was  the  old  farmer  who  owned  the  house  of  the 
Revolutionary  miller  by  the  village  Mill-dam,  and  left  by  will  a  thou 
sand  dollars  for  the  monument  which  is  now  the  Minute-man.  F.  B.  s. 

[159] 


THOREAU 

days, — past  contradiction  the  ornament  of  the  modern  world, 
and  then  good  to  eat,  —  choice  good,  as  acorns  and  horse- 
chestnuts  are  not.  We  will  have  shade-trees  for  breakfast. 

Then  the  effrontery  of  one  man's  exhibiting  more  wit  or 
merit  than  another!  Man  of  genius  said  you?  man  of  virtue? 
I  tell  you  both  are  malformations,  dropsies  of  the  brain  or 
the  liver,  and  shall  be  strictly  punishable  in  the  new  Com 
monwealth.  Nothing  that  is  not  extempore  shall  now  be  tol 
erated.  Pyramids  and  cities  shall  give  place  to  tents;  the 
man — soul,  sack,  and  skeleton,  which  many  years  or  ages 
have  built  up — shall  go  for  nothing;  his  dinner — the  rice 
and  mutton  he  ate  two  hours  ago,  now  fast  flowing  into 
chyle — is  all  we  consider.  And  the  problem, — how  to  detach 
new  dinner  from  old  man, — what  we  respect  from  what  we 
repudiate, — is  the  problem  for  the  Academies. 


[160] 


WALKS    AND    TALKS    CONTINUED 


"Felix  ille  animi,  divisque  simillimus  ipsis, 
Quern  non  mordaci  resplendens  gloria  fuco 
Solicitat,  non  fastosi  mala  gaudia  luxus, 
Sed  tacitos  sinit  ire  dies,  et  paupere  cultu 
Exigit  innocuae  silentia  vitae." 

POLITIAN. 

"If  over  this  world  of  ours 
His  wings  my  phoenix  spread, 
How  gracious  o'er  land  and  sea 
The  soul-refreshing  shade ! 

"Either  world  inhabits  he, 
Sees  oft  below  him  planets  roll ; 
His  body  is  all  of  air  compact, 
Of  Allah's  love  his  soul. 


"Courage,  Hafiz,  though  not  thine 
Gold  wedges  and  silver  ore, 
More  worth  to  thee  thy  gift  of  song, 
And  thy  clear  insight  more." 

HAFIZ. 

"The  wretched  pedlear  more  noise  he  maketh  to  cry  his 
soap  than  a  rich  merchant  all  his  dear  worth  wares." 

ANCREN  RIWLE. 


CHAPTER     IX 
WALKS    AND     TALKS    CONTINUED 

FLINT'S   POND 

T.  SUPPOSE  we  go  to  Flint's. 

C.  Agreed. 

T.  That  country  with  its  high  summits  in  Lincoln  is  good 
for  breezy  days.  I  love  the  mountain  view  from  the  Three 
Friends1  Hill  beyond  the  pond,  looking  over  Concord.  It  is 
worth  the  while  to  see  the  mountains  in  our  horizon  once 
a  day.  They  are  the  natural  temples,  the  elevated  brows  of 
the  earth,  looking  at  which  the  thoughts  of  the  beholder  are 
naturally  elevated  and  sublime, — etherealized.  I  go  to  Flint's 
Pond,  also,  to  see  a  rippling  lake  and  a  reedy  island  in  its 
midst, — Reed  Island.  A  man  should  feed  his  senses  with  the 
best  the  land  affords.  These  changes  in  the  weather, — how 
much  they  surprise  men  who  keep  no  journal!  but  look  back 
for  a  year,  and  you  will  most  commonly  find  a  similar  change 
at  the  same  time,  like  the  dry  capsules  of  the  violets  along 
this  wood-road.  Temperatures,  climates,  and  even  clouds,  may 
be  counted  (like  flowers,  insects,  animals,  and  reptiles)  among 
the  constants, — inevitable  reappearances;  and  things  yet 
further  typify  each  other,  like  the  breeze  rushing  over  the 
waterfall. 

C.  Nay,  do  not  pierce  me  with  your  regularity,  though 
you  might  say,  like  Peter  to  the  sentimental  lady,  "Madam, 
my  pigs  never  squeal." 

[163] 


THOREAU 

T.  Not  so :  learn  to  see  its  philosophy  in  each  thing.  It  is  a 
significant  fact,  that  though  no  man  is  quite  well  or  healthy, 
yet  every  one  believes,  practically,  that  health  is  the  rule, 
and  disease  the  exception;  and  each  invalid  is  wont  to  think 
himself  in  a  minority,  and  to  postpone  somewhat  of  endeavor 
to  another  state  of  existence.  But  it  may  be  some  encourage 
ment  to  men  to  know  that  in  this  respect  they  stand  on  the 
same  platform,  that  disease  is  in  fact  the  rule  of  our  terres 
trial  life,  and  the  prophecy  of  a  celestial  life.  Where  is  the 
coward  who  despairs  because  he  is  sick?  Seen  in  this  light, 
our  life  with  all  its  diseases  will  look  healthy;  and,  in  one 
sense,  the  more  healthy  as  it  is  the  more  diseased. 

C.  Upon  your  principle:  "I  am  thus  wet,  because  I  am 
thus  dry." 

T.  Disease  is  not  an  accident  of  the  individual,  nor  even  of 
the  generation,  but  of  life  itself.  In  some  form,  and  to  some 
degree  or  other,  it  is  one  of  the  permanent  conditions  of  life. 
It  is  a  cheering  fact,  nevertheless,  that  men  affirm  health 
unanimously,  and  esteem  themselves  miserable  failures.  Here 
was  no  blunder.  They  gave  us  life  on  exactly  these  conditions, 
and  methinks  we  shall  live  it  with  more  heart  when  we  clearly 
perceive  that  these  are  the  terms  on  which  we  have  it.  Life  is 
a  warfare,  a  struggle,  and  the  diseases  of  the  body  answer  to 
the  troubles  and  defects  of  the  spirit.  Man  begins  by  quarrel 
ling  with  the  animal  in  him,  and  the  result  is  immediate  dis 
ease.  In  proportion  as  the  spirit  is  more  ambitious  and  per 
severing,  the  more  obstacles  it  will  meet  with.  It  is  as  a  seer 
that  man  asserts  his  disease  to  be  exceptional. 

[164] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS     CONTINUED 

C.  Your  philosophers  and  their  tax  of  explanations  remind 
me  of  Donne's  familiar  Snail :  — 

(( Wise  emblem  of  our  politic  world, 
Sage  snail,  within  thine  own  self  curled ; 
Instruct  me  swiftly  to  make  haste, 
Whilst  thou  my  feet  go  slowly  past. 
Compendious  snail !  thou  seem'st  to  me 
Large  Euclid's  strict  epitome, 
That  big  still  with  thyself  dost  go, 
And  livest  an  aged  embryo." 

T.  And  I  might  make  that  other  criticism  upon  society 
and  its  institutions:  — 

"While  man  doth  ransack  man 
And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress ; 
And  th'  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  hopes." 

C.  Then  mark  how  man  and  his  affairs  fall  in  rounds :  the 
railroad  keeps  time  like  one  of  Simon  Willard's  clocks,  satu 
rated  with  insurance.  How  much  the  life  of  certain  men  goes 
to  sustain,  to  make  respected,  the  institutions  of  society!  They 
are  the  ones  who  pay  the  heaviest  tax.  They  are,  in  effect, 
supported  by  a  fund  which  society  possesses  for  that  end,  or 
they  receive  a  pension;  and  their  life  seems  to  be  a  sinecure, 
but  it  is  not.  Unwritten  laws  are  the  most  stringent.  He  who 
is  twice  erratic  has  become  the  object  of  custom:  — 

"There  are  whom  Heaven  has  blessed  with  store  of  wit, 
Yet  want  as  much  again  to  manage  it." 

E.  Then  am  I  a  customer,  and  a  paying  one.  Montaigne 
[165] 


THOREAU 

took  much  pains  to  be  made  a  citizen  of  Rome:  I  should 
much  prefer  to  have  the  freedom  of  a  peach-orchard, — once 
a  great  part  of  this  town  of  Lincoln  was  such, — or  of  some 
plantations  of  apples  and  pears  I  have  seen, — to  that  of  any 
city.  "You  do  not  understand  values,"  said  Sylvan.  "I  econo 
mize  every  drop  of  sap  in  my  trees,  as  if  it  were  wine.  A  few 
years  ago  these  trees  were  whipsticks :  now  every  one  of  them 
is  worth  a  hundred  dollars.  Look  at  their  form :  not  a  branch 
nor  a  twig  is  to  spare.  They  look  as  if  they  were  arms  and 
hands  and  fingers,  holding  out  to  you  the  fruit  of  the  Hes- 
perides.  Come,  see,"  said  he,  "what  weeds  grow  behind  this 
fence."  And  he  brought  me  to  a  pear-tree.  "Look,"  he  said: 
"this  tree  has  every  property  that  should  belong  to  a  plant. 
It  is  hardy  and  almost  immortal.  It  accepts  every  species  of 
nourishment,  and  can  live  almost  on  none,  like  a  date.  It  is 
free  from  every  form  of  blight.  Grubs,  worms,  flies,  bugs,  all 
attack  it.  It  yields  them  all  a  share  of  its  generous  juices; 
but,  when  they  left  their  eggs  on  its  broad  leaves,  it  thick 
ened  its  cuticle  a  little,  and  suffered  them  to  dry  up  and 
shook  off  the  vermin."  It  grows  like  the  ash  Ygdrasil.  — 

C.  A  bushel  of  wood-ashes  were  better  than  a  cart-load  of 
mythology.  If  I  did  not  love  Carlyle  for  his  worship  of  heroes, 
I  should  not  forgive  him  for  setting  out  that  ash.  There  is 
the  edge  of  the  Forest  Lake,  like  an  Indian  tradition,  gleam 
ing  across  the  pale-face's  moonshine.  From  this  Three  Friends1 
Hill1  (when  shall  we  three  meet  again?)  the  distant  forests 
have  a  curiously  rounded  or  bowery  look,  clothing  the  hills 
1  The  friends  were  Emerson,  Channing,  and  Thoreau. 

[166] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS     CONTINUED 

quite  down  to  the  water's  edge  and  leaving  no  shore;  the 
ponds  are  like  drops  of  dew,  amid  and  partly  covering  the 
leaves. 

T.  So  the  great  globe  is  luxuriously  crowded  without  mar 
gin.  The  groundsel,  or  "  fire- weed,"  which  has  been  touched 
by  frost,  already  is  as  if  it  had  died  long  months  ago,  or 
a  fire  had  run  through  it.  The  black  birches,  now  yellow 
on  the  hill-sides,  look  like  flames;  the  chestnut-trees  are 
burnished  yellow  as  well  as  green.  It  is  a  beautifully  clear 
and  bracing  air,  with  just  enough  coolness;  full  of  the  memory 
of  frosty  mornings,  through  which  all  things  are  distinctly 
seen,  and  the  fields  look  as  smooth  as  velvet.  The  fragrance 
of  grapes  is  on  the  breeze,  and  the  red  drooping  barberries 
sparkle  amid  their  leaves.  The  horned  (cornuta)  utricularia 
on  the  sandy  pond-shores  is  not  affected  by  the  frost.  The 
sumacs  are  among  the  reddest  leaves;  the  witch-hazel  is  in 
bloom,  and  the  crows  fill  the  landscape  with  a  savage  sound. 
The  mullein,  so  conspicuous  with  its  architectural  spire,  the 
prototype  of  candelabrums,  must  be  remembered. 

E.  If  Herrick  be  the  best  of  English  poets,  as  sometimes, 
when  in  the  vein,  you  say  (a  true  Greek),  this  landscape  again 
could  give  him  all  he  needed, — he  who  sang  a  cherry,  Julia's 
hair  (we  have  plenty  of  that),  Netterby's  pimple  (yes),  his  own 
hen  Partlet,  and  Ben  Jonson  (we  have  all  of  these,  except 
ing  a  large  assortment  of  Ben  Jonsons).  We  possess  a  wider 
variety  here  among  the  maples ;  but  the  poetry  and  the  prose 
of  that  age  was  more  solid  and  cordial. — 

C.  But  hear  Street  once  more :  — 
[167] 


THOREAU 

.  .   .  "The  little  violet 
Pencilled  with  purple  on  one  snowy  leaf. 

And  golden-rod  and  aster  stain  the  scene 
With  hues  of  sun  and  sky. 

The  last  butterfly 

Like  a  winged  violet,  floating  in  the  meek 
Pink-colored  sunshine,  sinks  his  velvet  feet 
Within  the  pillared  mullein's  delicate  down. 

Here  showers  the  light  in  golden  dots, 
There  sleeps  the  shade  in  ebon  spots. 

Floated  the  yellow  butterfly, 

A  wandering  spot  of  sunshine  by. 

.  .   .  the  buckwheat's  scented  snow." 
He  has  his  prettinesses,  too; 

.  .  .  "The  holy  moon, 
A  sentinel  upon  the  steeps  of  heaven. 

A  cluster  of  low  roofs  is  prest 
Against  the  mountain's  leaning  breast. 

One  mighty  pine,  amid  the  straggling  trees, 
Lifts  its  unchanging  pyramid  to  heaven. 

He  marked  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine-tree  with  its  foot. 

The  bee's  low  hum,  the  whirr  of  wings, 
And  the  sweet  songs  of  grass-hid  things." 

[168] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS     CONTINUED 

So  Vaughan  has  a  hint  of  this  insight:  — 

"As  this  loud  brook's  incessant  fall 
In  streaming  rings  re-stagnates  all, 
Which  reach  by  course  the  bank,  and  then 
Are  no  more  seen. 

Shall  my  short  hour,  my  inch, 
My  one  poor  sand. 

Her  art,  whose  pensive  weeping  eyes 
Were  once  sin's  loose  and  tempting  spies. 

Heaven 

Is  a  plain  watch,  and  without  figures  winds 
All  ages  up. 

How  shrill  are  silent  tears  !" 

E.  But  Vaughan  is  like  the  interiors  of  Fra  Angelico. 

C.  Has  this  pond  an  outlet,  as  methinks  it  should,  when 
you  hold  the  reflections  caught  from  its  waters  thus  precious  ? 

T.  It  has:  a  brook  runs  from  the  southerly  end,  that  joins 
another  from  Beaver  Pond,  and,  chasing  swiftly  down  fine 
meadows,  amid  rocky  knolls  in  Weston,  goes  to  turn  water- 
wheels  at  Stony  Brook. 

ROUND    HILL    IN     SUDBURY    MEADOWS 

C.  You  judge  it  is  three  miles  and  a  half  to  the  point  where 
you  propose  to  take  the  boat? — 

T.  Yes:  in  the  rear  of  the  blacksmith's  house, — he  who 
calls  the  bittern  "Baked  Plum-pudding"  and  "Cow-poke," 

[169] 


THOREAU 

and  the  woodchuck  "Squash-belly."  A  composed,  moderate, 
self-understanding  man; — here 's  the  pinnace  (as  our  neighbor 
names  his  candle-stick)  for  a  voyage  among  the  lilies.  Why 
look  ye  so  intently  at  the  bottom  ? 

C.  I  commonly  sit,  not  in,  but  above,  the  water. 

T.  Be  assured,  sir,  your  feet  are  not  wholly  in  the  Concord. 
"Tis  dry  enough  in  July,  outside, — push  off;  she  will  not  sink 
more  than  four  feet, — the  depth  here. 

C.  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen,  but  not  a 
more  superb  one  than  this.  How  in  its  glassy  folds  the  dark, 
wine-colored  river  lays  its  unswept  carpet  across  the  fragrant 
meadows !  The  button-bushes  and  willows  resound  with  the 
gleeful  chorus  of  redwings  and  bobolinks,  while  the  courageous 
king-bird  hovers  quivering  over  his  nest.  If  there  is  any  one 
thing  birds  do  like,  it  is  to  sing  in  sunshiny  mornings.  Why, 
this  is  the  mouth  of  the  Pantry  Brook :  it  comes  out  of  the 
mysterious  interstices  of  Sudbury,  where  the  mud  is  up  to 
your  middle,  and  where  some  of  Sam  Haynes's  folks  died.  I 
wish  I  had  a  photograph  of  Sam,  the  fisherman :  as  the  man 
did  when  he  was  told  that  Croesus  was  the  richest  man  who 
ever  lived:  if  he  beat  Sam's  stories,  he  must  have  been  rich. 
And  there  is  Round  Hill, — the  river  bending,  yet  not  before 
we  anchor  in  the  Port  of  Lilies  (perfumed  love- tokens  float 
ing  in  a  lapsing  dream  of  turquoise  and  gold,  like  Cleopatra's 
barge);  some  experiments  in  rose- tints,  too,  were  tried  with 
that  dear  creature,  the  water-lily,  and  did  well. 

E.  When  you  thus  eulogize  Nature,  it  reminds  me  how  great 
an  advantage  he  possesses  who  can  turn  a  verse,  over  all  the 

[  "0  ] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS     CONTINUED 

human  race.  I  read  in  Wood's  "Athense  Oxonienses"  a  score 
of  pages  of  learned  nobodies,  of  whose  once  odoriferous  repu 
tations  not  a  trace  remains  in  the  air;  and  then  I  come  to  the 
name  of  some  Carew  or  Herrick,  Suckling  or  Chapman,  as 
fresh  and  lustrous  as  these  floating  sunlight  creams. 
C.  A  Concord  poet  says: — 

" There  are  beggars  in  Iran  and  Araby, 
Said  was  hungrier  than  all ; 
Men  said  he  was  a  fly 
That  came  to  every  festival, 
Also  he  came  to  the  mosque 
In  trail  of  camel  and  caravan, 
Out  from  Mecca  to  Isphahan;  — 
Northward  he  went  to  the  snowy  hills, — 
At  court  he  sat  in  the  grave  divan. 

His  music  was  the  south  wind's  sigh, 
His  lamp  the  maiden's  downcast  eye, 
And  ever  the  spell  of  beauty  came 
And  turned  the  drowsy  world  to  flame. 
By  lake  and  stream  and  gleaming  hall, 
And  modest  copse,  and  the  forest  tall, 
Where'er  he  went  the  magic  guide 
Kept  its  place  by  the  poet's  side. 

Tell  me  the  world  is  a  talisman, 
To  read  it  must  be  the  art  of  man; 
Said  melted  the  days  in  cups  like  pearl, 
Served  high  and  low,  the  lord  and  the  churl; 
Loved  harebells  nodding  on  a  rock, 
A  cabin  hung  with  curling  smoke, 
And  huts  and  tents,  nor  loved  he  less 


THOREAU 

Stately  lords  in  palaces, 

Fenced  by  form  and  ceremony."1 

T.  There,  on  Round  Hill,  is  a  true  woodman's  hut.  The 
hill  is  low,  but  from  its  position  enjoys  a  beautiful  outlook 
upon  Sudbury  meadows.  Yes:  this  is  a  good  place  to  fish. 
Can  you  keep  worms  in  your  mouth,  like  Indians?  Maybe 
they  won't  bite. 

C.  Which,  —  fish,  worms,  or  Indians?  Things  that  are  done 
it  is  needless  to  speak  about,  or  remonstrate  against:  things 
that  are  past  are  needless  to  blame. — 

THE     DOG     PETER,     OR    BOSE2 

C.  I  fancied  the  saying,  that  man  was  created  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels,  should  have  been,  a  little  lower  than 
the  animals! 

T.  Does  it  not  flavor  of  puerile  conceit,  that  fancy  ? 

C.  The  conceit  of  man  is  dark;  but,  as  we  go  to  Goose- 
shore  swimming-place,  on  the  Assabet,  with  Peter  running 
before,  I  feel  sorry  that  Goethe  introduced  a  black  dog  in 
"Faust,"  as  the  kernel  of  the  elephant.  And  the  wild  animals 
are  superior  to  the  tame,  just  as  the  Indian  treads  before 
the  civilized  man.  Observe  Peter  capering  through  bush  and 
briar,  plunging  into  pool  or  stream,  with  his  smiling  tail! 
and  he  sweats  through  his  nose.  What  dull  pedants  the  mirth- 
provoking  creatures  consider  us!  and  how  more  than  tame 

1  Verses  of  Emerson's,  first  printed  by  Channing  here. 

2  One  of  Channing's  dogs,  kept  by  him  in  1853-54. 

[  172  ] 


WALKS     AND     TALKS     CONTINUED 

poor  Cowper's  three  tame  hares  may  have  deemed  him,  in 
his  nightcap,  made  by  Mrs.  Unwin!  Peter  catches  no  cold, 
though  he  wets  his  feet,  and  never  has  the  doctor.  As  the 
Indians  amused  the  Jesuits  in  Canada,  by  sitting  all  day  in 
a  nude  manner,  frozen  to  the  ice,  and  fishing  complacently 
through  holes  in  it,  as  if  lolling  on  feather  beds,  so  I  have 
known  Peter  take  a  nap  all  night  on  a  snow-bank  in  January. 

There,  he 's  at  the  base  of  that  mud-hole ;  Lyell  was  never 
deeper  in  geology  than  he  is. 

T.  [Journal,  August  29,  185 1J\  I  saw  a  man  by  the  river, 
working  with  a  horse  in  a  field,  carting  dirt,  and  the  horse 
and  man's  relations  to  him  struck  me  as  very  remarkable. 
There  was  the  horse,  a  mere  animated  machine  (though  his 
tail  was  brushing  off  the  flies),  his  whole  existence  subordi 
nated  to  the  man's;  with  no  tradition,  perhaps  no  instinct, 
in  him  of  a  time  when  he  was  wild  and  free, — completely 
humanized.  No  compact  had  been  made  with  him  that  he 
should  have  the  Saturday  afternoons,  or  the  Sundays,  or  any 
holidays;  his  independence  never  being  recognized,  and  it  be 
ing  now  forgotten  both  by  men  and  horses  that  the  horse 
was  ever  free.  For  I  am  not  aware  that  there  are  any  wild 
horses  surely  known  not  to  be  descended  from  tame  ones.  He 
was  assisting  that  man  to  pull  down  that  bank  and  spread 
it  over  the  meadow ;  only  keeping  off  the  flies  with  his  tail, 
and  stamping  and  catching  a  mouthful  of  grass  or  leaves 
from  time  to  time,  on  his  own  account, — all  the  rest  for 
Man.  It  seemed  hardly  worth  while  that  he  should  be  ani 
mated  for  this.  It  was  plain  that  the  man  was  not  educating 

[173] 


THOREAU 

the  horse;  not  trying  to  develop  his  nature,  but  merely  get 
ting  work  out  of  him.  That  mass  of  animated  matter  seemed 
more  completely  the  servant  of  man  than  any  inanimate. 

For  slaves  have  their  holidays;  a  heaven  is  conceded  to 
them,  but  to  the  horse  none;  now  and  for  ever  he  is  man's 
slave.  The  more  I  considered,  the  more  the  man  seemed  akin 
to  the  horse;  only  his  was  the  stronger  will  of  the  two;  for  a 
little  further  on  I  saw  an  Irishman  shovelling,  who  evidently 
was  as  much  tamed  as  the  horse.  He  had  stipulated  that, 
to  a  certain  extent,  his  independence  be  recognized,  and  yet 
really  he  was  but  little  more  independent. 

I  had  always  regarded  the  horse  as  a  free  people  some 
where,  living  wild;  as  whatever  has  not  come  under  the  sway 
of  man  is  wild.  In  this  sense  original  and  independent  men 
are  wild, — not  tamed  and  broken  by  society.  Now  for  rny 
part  I  have  such  a  respect  for  the  horse's  nature  as  would 
tempt  me  to  let  him  alone;  not  to  interfere  with  him, — his 
walks,  his  diet,  his  loves.  But  by  mankind  he  is  treated  sim 
ply  as  an  engine  which  must  have  rest  and  is  sensible  of  pain. 
Suppose  that  every  squirrel  was  made  to  turn  a  coffee-mill; 
suppose  that  the  gazelles  were  made  to  draw  milk-carts ! 

There  he  was,  with  his  tail  cut  off  because  it  was  in  the 
way,  or  to  suit  his  master's  taste;  his  mane  trimmed  and  his 
feet  shod  with  iron,  that  he  might  wear  longer.  What  is  a 
horse  but  an  animal  that  has  lost  his  liberty?  what  is  it  but 
a  system  of  slavery?  and  do  you  not  by  insensible  and  unim 
portant  degrees  come  to  human  slavery?  And  has  man  got 
any  more  liberty  himself  for  having  robbed  the  horse?  Or 

[  174  ]  ' 


WALKS     AND     TALKS     CONTINUED 

has  he  lost  just  as  much  of  his  own,  and  become  more  like 
the  horse  he  has  robbed  ?  Is  not  the  other  end  of  the  bridle, 
too,  in  this  case,  coiled  around  his  own  neck?  hence  stable- 
boys,  jockeys,  and  all  that  class  daily  transported  by  fast 
horses.  There  he  stood,  with  his  oblong,  square  figure  (his 
tail  being  cut  off)  seen  against  the  water,  brushing  off  the 
flies  with  his  tail,  and  stamping;  braced  back  while  the  man 
was  filling  the  cart. 

No  doubt  man  impresses  his  own  character  on  the  beasts 
which  he  tames  and  employs.  They  are  not  only  humanized, 
but  they  acquire  his  particular  human  nature.  John  Hosmer's 
dog  sprang  up,  ran  out  and  growled  at  us;  and  in  his  eye  I 
seemed  to  see  the  eye  of  his  master.  How  much  oxen  are  like 
farmers,  and  cows  like  farmers'  wives,  and  young  steers  and 
heifers  like  farmers1  boys  and  girls!  The  farmer  acts  on  the 
ox,  and  the  ox  reacts  on  the  farmer;  they  do  not  meet  half 
way,  it  is  true,  but  they  do  meet  at  a  distance  from  the  centre 
of  each,  proportionate  to  each  one^s  intellectual  power.  The 
farmer  is  ox-like  in  his  walk,  in  his  strength,  in  his  trust 
worthiness,  in  his  taste. 

C.  "The  ill  that's  wisely  feared  is  half  withstood." 

I  regard  the  horse  as  a  human  being  in  a  humble  state  of  ex 
istence.  Virtue  is  not  left  to  stand  alone;  he  who  practises  it 
will  have  neighbors. 

T.  [Journal,  September  49 1851.}  Man  conceitedly  names  the 
intelligence  and  industry  of  animals  "instinct,"  and  overlooks 
their  wisdom  and  fitness  of  behavior.  I  saw  where  the  squirrels 

[  175  ] 


THOREAU 

had  carried  off  the  ears  of  corn  more  than  twenty  rods  from 
the  corn-field,  to  the  woods.  A  little  further  on,  beyond  Hub- 
bard's  Brook,  I  saw  a  gray  squirrel  with  an  ear  of  yellow 
corn,  a  foot  long,  sitting  on  the  fence,  fifteen  rods  from  the 
field.  He  dropped  the  corn,  but  continued  to  sit  on  the  rail 
where  I  could  hardly  see  him,  it  being  of  the  same  color  with 
himself,  which  I  have  no  doubt  he  was  well  aware  of.  He  next 
went  to  a  red  maple,  where  his  policy  was  to  conceal  himself 
behind  the  stem,  hanging  perfectly  still  there  till  I  passed, 
his  fur  being  exactly  the  color  of  the  bark.  When  I  struck 
the  tree,  and  tried  to  frighten  him,  he  knew  better  than  to 
run  to  the  next  tree,  there  being  no  continuous  row  by  which 
he  might  escape;  but  he  merely  fled  higher  up,  and  put  so 
many  leaves  between  us  that  it  was  difficult  to  discover  him. 
When  I  threw  up  a  stick  to  frighten  him,  he  disappeared  en 
tirely,  though  I  kept  the  best  watch  I  could,  and  stood  close 
to  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

C.  They  are  wonderfully  cunning! 

T.  That  is  all  you  can  say  for  them.  There  is  something 
pathetic  to  think  of  in  such  a  life  as  an  average  Carlisle  man 
may  be  supposed  to  live,  drawn  out  to  eighty  years;  and  he 
has  died,  perchance,  and  there  is  nothing  but  the  mark  of  his 
cider-mill  left.  Here  was  the  cider-mill,  and  there  the  orchard, 
and  there  the  hog-pasture,  and  so  men  lived  and  ate,  and 
drank,  and  passed  away  like  vermin.  Their  long  life  was  mere 
duration.  As  respectable  is  the  life  of  the  woodchuck,  which 
perpetuates  its  race  in  the  orchard  still.  That  is  the  life  of 
these  select  men  spun  out.  They  will  be  forgotten  in  a  few 

[176] 


WALKS     AND    TALKS     CONTINUED 

years,  even  by  such  as  themselves,  as  vermin.  They  will  be 
known  like  Kibbe,  who  is  said  to  have  been  a  large  man,  who 
weighed  250,  who  had  five  or  six  heavy  daughters  who  rode 
to  Concord  meeting-house  on  horseback,  taking  turns;  they 
were  so  heavy  that  one  could  only  ride  at  once.  What,  then, 
would  redeem  such  a  life?  We  only  know  that  they  ate  and 
drank,  and  built  barns  and  died,  and  were  buried,  and  still, 
perchance,  their  tombstones  cumber  the  ground, — "time's 
dead  low  water."  There  never  has  been  a  girl  who  learned  to 
bring  up  a  child,  that  she  might  afterwards  marry. 

C.  Perhaps  you  depreciate  humanity,  and  overestimate 
somewhat  else. 

E.  A  whimsical  person l  said  once,  he  should  make  a  prayer 
to  the  chance  that  brought  him  into  the  world.  He  fancied 
that  when  the  child  had  escaped  out  of  the  womb,  he  cried, 
"I  thank  the  bridge  that  brought  me  safe  over:  I  would  not 
for  ten  worlds  take  the  next  one's  chance!"  Will  they,  one  of 
these  days,  at  Fourierville,  make  boys  and  girls  to  order  and 
pattern?  I  want,  Mr.  Christmas-office,  a  boy  between  No.  17 
and  No.  134,  half-and-half  of  both;  you  might  add  a  trace  of 
113.  I  want  a  pair  of  little  girls  like  91,  only  a  tinge  more  of 
the  Swede,  and  a  tinge  of  the  Moorish. 

Men  are  so  careless  about  their  really  good  side.  James 
Baker  does  not  imagine  that  he  is  a  rich  man,  yet  he  keeps 
from  year  to  year  that  lordly  park  of  his,  by  Fairhaven  Pond, 
lying  idly  open  to  all  comers,  without  crop  or  rent,  like  an 
other  Lord  Breadalbane,  with  its  hedges  of  Arcady,  its  sump- 
1  It  was  Ellery  Channing. 

[177] 


THOREAU 

tuous  lawns  and  slopes,  its  orchard  and  grape-vines,  the  mirror 
at  its  foot,  and  the  terraces  of  Hollowell  on  the  opposite  bank. 
C.  Yet  I  know  he  would  reprove  me,  as  our  poet  has 
written:  — 

"Said  Saadi,— When  I  stood  before 

Hassan  the  camel-driver's  door, 

I  scorned  the  fame  of  Timour  brave, — 

Timour  to  Hassan  was  a  slave. 

In  every  glance  of  Hassan's  eye 

I  read  rich  years  of  victory. 

And  I,  who  cower  mean  and  small 

In  the  frequent  interval, 

When  wisdom  not  with  me  resides, 

Worship  toil's  wisdom  that  abides ! 

I  shunned  his  eyes, — the  faithful  man's, 

I  shunned  the  toiling  Hassan's  glance." 

Work,  yes;  and  good  conduct  additional.  You  have  been, 
so  I  have  read,  a  schoolmaster.  I  trust  you  advised  your 
neophytes  "to  keep  company  with  none  but  men  of  learning 
and  reputation;  to  behave  themselves  upon  the  place  with 
candor,  caution,  and  temperance;  to  avoid  compotations;  to 
go  to  bed  in  good  time,  and  rise  in  good  time;  to  let  them 
see  you  are  men  that  observe  hours  and  discipline;  to  make 
much  of  yourself,  and  want  nothing  that  is  fit  for  you."  The 
life  of  Caesar  himself  has  no  greater  example  for  us  than  our 
own.  We  must  thrust  against  a  door  to  know  whether  it  is 
bolted  against  us  or  not.  "Where  there  is  no  difficulty,  there 
is  no  praise;  and  every  human  excellence  must  be  the  product 
of  good  fortune,  improved  by  hard  work  and  genius." 

[178] 


THE    LATTER    YEAR 


"Come,  sleep!  Oh,  sleep!  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low." 

SIDNEY. 

"  You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night 
That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes, 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light ; 
You  common  people  of  the  skies, 
What  are  you  when  the  moon  shall  rise?" 

H.  WOTTON. 

.     .     .     "in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade." 

SHIRLEY. 

"Astrochiton  Heracles,  King  of  fire,  Chorus-leader  of  the  world, 
Sun,  Shepherd  of  mortal  life,  who  castest  long  shadows,  riding 
spirally  the  whole  heaven  with  burning  disk,  rolling  the  twelve- 
monthed  year,  the  son  of  Time,  thou  performest  orbit  after  orbit." 

NONNUS. 

"  It  is  not  but  the  tempest  that  doth  show 
The  seaman's  cunning,  but  the  field  that  tries 
The  captain's  courage." 

BEN  JONSON. 


CHAPTER     X 

THE     LATTER    YEAR 

C.  Do  you  observe  how  long  the  cultivated  trees  hold  their 
leaves,  such  as  apples,  cherries,  and  peaches?  As  if  they  said, 
"We  can  longer  maintain  our  privileges  than  yonder  uncul 
tured  generation."  The  black  willows  stand  bare  along  the 
edges  of  the  river;  the  balm-of-Gileads  and  a  few  trium 
phant  elms  yet  hang  out  their  dusky  banners  on  the  outward 
walls  of  the  latter  year.  That  Indian  summer,  too,  made  its 
tranquil  appearance, — put  in  leg-bail  for  the  greasy  old  red 
skins. 

T.  After  the  verdure  goes,  after  the  harvest  of  the  year  is 
gathered  in,  there  is  a  stationary  period, — the  year  travels  on 
a  paved  road.  It  is  with  leaves  as  with  fruits  and  woods  and 
animals:  when  they  are  mature,  their  different  characters  ap 
pear.  That  migration  of  the  birds  is  a  cunning  get-off.  The 
most  peaceful,  the  sunniest  autumn  day  in  New  England  has 
a  blue  background,  like  some  cultivated  person  at  the  bottom 
of  whose  palaver  is  ice.  I  hear  the  barking  of  a  red  squirrel 
whose  clock  is  set  a-going  by  a  little  cause  in  cool  weather, 
when  the  spring  is  tense;  and  a  great  scolding  and  ado  among 
the  jays.  The  housewives  of  Nature  wish  to  see  the  rooms 
properly  cleaned  and  swept,  before  the  upholsterer  comes  and 
nails  down  his  carpet  of  snow.  The  swamp  burns  along  its 
margin  with  the  scarlet  berries  of  the  black  alder,  or  prinos; 
the  leaves  of  the  pitcher-plant  (which  old  Josselyn  called 

[181] 


THOREAU 

Hollow-leaved  Lavender)  abound,  and  are  of  many  colors, 
from  plain  green  to  a  rich  striped  yellow,  or  deep  red. 
C.  Street  says, — 

"The  hickory-shell,  cracked  open  by  its  fall, 
Shows  its  ripe  fruit,  an  ivory  ball,  within ; 
And  the  white  chestnut-burr  displays  its  sheath 
White  glistening  with  its  glossy  nuts  below. 
Scattered  around,  the  wild  rose-bushes  hang, 
Their  ruby  buds  tipping  their  thorny  sprays ; 
The  Everlasting's  blossoms  seem  as  cut 
In  delicate  silver,  whitening  o'er  the  slopes ; 
The  seedy  clematis,  branched  high,  is  robed 
With  woolly  tufts ;  the  snowy  Indian-pipe 
Is  streaked  with  black  decay ;  the  wintergreen 
Offers  its  berries ;  and  the  prince' s-pine, 
Scarce  seen  above  the  fallen  leaves,  peers  out, 
A  firm,  green,  glossy  wreath." 

T.  Now  you  allude  to  it,  does  not  a  deception  like  that  of 
the  climate  pervade  the  men?  The  downright  cheer  of  old 
England  struggling  through  its  brogue,  the  dazzling  stiletto 
affliction  of  Italy  and  France,  with  us  are  lacking.  Like  our 
climate,  and  our  scale  of  classes,  the  sentiment  of  New  Eng 
land  is  changeable.  It  is  one  of  the  year's  expiring  days,  one 
of  his  death-bed  days.  The  children,  playing  at  the  school- 
house  a  mile  off,  the  rattle  of  distant  carts,  farmers1  voices 
calling  to  their  cattle,  cocks  crowing  in  unknown  barn-yards, 
every  sound  speeds  through  the  attenuated  air,  as  the  beat  of 
the  death-tick  echoes  in  the  funeral  chamber !  The  trees  are 
as  bare  as  my  purse.  How  significant  is  the  effect  of  these 

[  182] 


THE     LATTER     YEAR 

blue  smokes,  as  if  they  came  from  some  olfactory  altar  of  the 
Parsees,  imploring  the  protection  of  yon  threadbare  luminary ! 
Methinks  is  something  divine  in  the  culinary  art, — the  silent 
columns  of  light-blue  vapor  rising  slowly.  Beneath  them  many 
a  rusty  kettle  sings. 

C.  "To  intersoar  unseen  delights  the  more." 

QUARLES. 

E.  I  cannot  doubt  but  the  range  of  the  thermometer  in 
vades  the  morals  of  the  people.  The  puritan  element  survives 
in  our  cultivated  conservatism,  if  there  is  gilding  on  the  chain. 
Certain  families  resolve  to  divide  themselves  from  the  mass  by 
ingenious  marriages.  And  talent  tries  to  keep  its  head  above 
low-water,  yet  the  agreeable  orators,  who  go  to  Plymouth 
and  delectate  the  mass,  if  you  come  at  them  in  parlors,  are 
simple  creatures;  and  our  great  historian,  Prescott,  took  the 
weight  of  his  waistcoat  before  he  went  forth. 

C.  'T  is  well  he  was  not  forced  to  conceal  the  ravelled  sleeve 
of  care  by  buttoning  up  his  outer  garment.  A  few  years  past, 
yonder  breezy  representative  may  have  been  an  usher  in  a 
school,  where,  doubtless,  filigree  was  taught. 

FROSTY    WEATHER 

T.  Winter  is  fairly  broached.  When  the  year  becomes  cold, 
then  we  know  how  the  pine  and  cypress  are  the  last  to  lose 
their  leaves. — 

C.  I  should  say  he  is  in  such  a  condition  that  tapping  is 
impossible: — 

[  183] 


THOREAU 

"The  moon  has  set,  the  Pleiades  are  gone; 
'T  is  the  mid-noon  of  night ;  the  hour  is  by, 
And  yet  I  watch  alone/' 

says  Sappho  in  Percival. 

T.  How  hollow  echoes  the  frozen  road,  under  the  wheels  of 
the  teamster's  wagon !  The  muzzles  of  the  patient  steers  are 
fringed  in  ice,  and  their  backs  whitened  with  hoar-frost.  For 
all  the  singing-birds,  the  chickadees  remain;  the  sawing  and 
scraping  of  the  jay  and  the  crows  do  remotely  pertain  to 
music.  A  single  night  snaps  the  year  in  two.  In  the  declara 
tion  of  Tang,  it  is  said,  O  sun,  when  wilt  thou  expire?  We 
will  die  with  thee.  Percival  makes  Sappho  say,— 

" Sweet  mother!  I  can  weave  the  web  no  more, 
So  much  I  love  the  youth,  so  much  I  lingering  love." 

C.  Shadows  hang  like  flocks  of  ink  from  the  pitch-pines; 
the  winter  sunset,  the  winter  twilight,  falls  slowly  down  and 
congeals  the  helpless  valleys ;  the  sky  has  a  base  of  lustrous 
apple-green,  and  then  flows  softly  up  to  the  zenith  that  ten 
der  roseate  flush,  like  a  virgin's  cheek  when  she  is  refusing 
the  youth.  Is  winter  a  cheat?  " Neighbor ,"  as  Margaret  says 
when  she  finds  Faust  is,  "lend  me  your  smelling-bottle.""  The 
weather  forms  its  constitution  in  our  people,  and  they  are 
equal  to  it.  As  we  catch  a  morsel  of  warmth  behind  this 
sunny  rock,  I  '11  sing  you  a  song  about  old  King  Cole :  — 


[184] 


THE     LATTER     YEAR 
TEAMSTERS'   SONG 

How  the  wind  whistled !  how  flew  the  snow ! 
The  teamsters  knew  not  if 't  were  still  or  no, 
And  the  trains  stood  puffing,  all  kept  away  back, 
And  the  drifts  lay  deep  o'er  the  railroad  track; 
While  the  snow  it  flew,  and  the  wind  it  blew, 
And  the  teamsters  bawled,  —  what  a  jolly  crew ! 

Their  caps  are  all  dressed  with  the  muskrat  fur, 

But  the  colder  the  weather  (the  truth  I  aver), 

Still  less  do  they  turn  to  the  soft,  silky  lining; 

Their  ears  are  of  stone, — 'tis  easy  divining, — 

And  their  hearts  full  of  joy,  while  the  snow  whirls  fast, 

And  the  lash  of  the  North  swings  abroad  on  the  blast. 

And  the  sky  is  steel  on  the  white  cloud  flecked, 

And  the  pines  are  ghosts  in  their  snow-wreaths  decked, 

And  the  stormy  surge  of  the  gale  is  rising 

While  the  teamster  enjoys  the  tempest  surprising, 

With  his  lugging-sled  and  his  oxen  four ; 

When  the  wind  roars  the  hardest,  he  bawls  all  the  more. 

C.  Did  you  never  admire  the  steady,  silent,  windless  fall  of 
the  snow  in  some  lead-colored  day,  silent  save  the  little  tick 
ing  of  the  flakes  as  they  touch  the  twigs  ? 1  It  is  chased  silver, 
moulded  over  the  pines  and  oak-leaves.  Soft  shades  hang  like 
curtains  along  the  closely  draped  wood-paths.  Frozen  apples 
become  little  cider-vats.  The  old,  crooked  apple-trees,  frozen 
stiff  in  the  pale  shivering  sunlight  that  appears  to  be  dying 
of  consumption,  gleam  forth  like  the  heroes  of  one  of  Dante's 

1  This  was  quoted  by  an  English  reviewer  as  one  of  the  best  descriptions 
of  nature  by  Thoreau.  But  in  fact  it  was  all  written  by  me.  w.  E.  c. 

[185] 


THOREAU 

cold  hells;  we  would  not  mind  a  change  in  the  mercury  of 
the  dream.  The  snow  crunches  under  the  foot,  the  chopper's 
axe  rings  funereally  through  the  tragic  air.  At  early  morn 
the  frost  on  button-bushes  and  willows  was  silvery,  and  every 
stem  and  minutest  twig  and  filamentary  weed  became  a  sil 
ver  thing,  while  the  cottage-smokes  came  up  salmon-colored 
into  that  oblique  day.  At  'the  base  of  ditches  were  shooting 
crystals,  like  the  blades  of  an  ivory-handled  pen-knife,  and 
rosettes  and  favors,  fretted  of  silver,  on  the  flat  ice.  The  little 
cascades  in  the  brook  were  ornamented  with  transparent 
shields,  and  long  candelabrums,  and  spermaceti-colored  fools' 
caps,  and  plaited  jellies,  and  white  globes,  with  the  black 
water  whirling  along  transparently  underneath.  The  sun  comes 
out,  and  all  at  a  glance  rubies,  sapphires,  diamonds,  and  em 
eralds  start  into  intense  life  on  the  angles  of  the  snow-crystals. 

T.  You  remember  that  Dry  den  says,  "common-sense  is  a 
rule  in  everything  but  matters  of  faith  and  revelation." 

C.  Because  he  lived  in  Will's  coffee-house.  He  would  have 
had  an  ideal  sense,  had  he  experienced  a  New  England  win 
ter.  Frost  is  your  safest  shoe-leather  in  the  marshes.  How  red 
the  andromeda-leaves  have  turned!  Snow  and  ice  remind  us 
of  architecture.  No  lathe  ever  made  such  handsome  scrolls 
and  friezes. 

T.  And  to  the  arctic  man  these  cold  matters  make  paradise. 
As  Kudlago,  the  Eskimo,  who  was  going  home  aboard  ship 
from  warmer  climes,  cried,  in  his  dying  moment,  "  Teiko-se  Ko, 
teiko-se  Ko^ — Do  you  see  ice,  do  you  see  ice? 

You  once  wrote  this:  — 

[186] 


THE     LATTER     YEAR 

"By  fall  and  fount,  by  gleaming  hill, 
And  sheltered  farmhouse  still  and  gray, 

By  broad,  wild  marsh  and  wood-set  rill, 
Dies  cold  and  sere  the  winter's  day. 
Oh,  icy  sunlight,  fade  away ! 

"Thou  pale  magnificence  of  fate! 
Thy  arch  is  but  the  loitering  cloud, 

A  tall  pine-wood  thy  palace-gate, 
The  alder-buds  thy  painted  crowd, 
Some  far-off  road  thy  future  proud, 
Much  cold  security  allowed." 

C.  Art  and  architecture,  I  suppose,  you  consider  the  same 
thing.  If  I  visited  galleries  where  pictures  are  preserved,  I 
would  go  now,  though  Hawthorne  says  he  would  as  soon  see 
a  basilisk  as  one  of  the  old  pictures  at  the  Boston  Athenaeum. 
I  think  the  fine  art  of  Goethe  and  company  very  dubious; 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether  all  this  talk  about  prints  of  the 
old  Italian  school  means  anything  (Giotto  and  the  rest).  It 
may  do  very  well  for  idle  gentlemen. 

E.  I  reply,  there  is  a  fire  to  every  smoke.  There  were  a  few 
Anakim  who  gave  the  thing  vogue  by  their  realism.  If  Odin 
wrought  in  iron  or  in  ships,  these  worked  as  rancorously  in 
paint.  Michel  Angelo,  Ribeira  (the  man  that  made  the  skull 
and  the  monk,  who  is  another  skull  looking  at  it),  and  the 
man  who  made  in  marble  the  old  Torso  Hercules ;  the  Phidias, 
man  or  men,  who  made  the  Parthenon  friezes,  had  a  drastic 
style,  which  a  blacksmith  or  a  stone-mason  would  say  was 
starker  than  their  own.  And  I  adhere  to  Van  Waagen's  be- 

[187] 


THOREAU 

lief,  that  there  is  a  pleasure  from  works  of  art  which  nothing 
else  can  yield.  Yes,  we  should  have  a  water-color  exhibition 
in  Boston;  but  I  should  like  better  to  have  water-color  tried 
in  the  art  of  writing.  Let  our  troubadours  have  one  of  these 
Spanish  slopes  of  the  dry  ponds  or  basins  which  run  from 
Walden  to  the  river  at  Fairhaven,  in  their  September  dress 
of  color,  under  a  glowering  sky, — the  Walden  sierras  given 
as  a  theme, — and  they  required  to  daguerreotype  that  in  good 
words. 

C.  I  will  do  my  best;  but,  as  we  were  speaking  of  archi 
tecture,  remember  that  this  art  consists  in  the  imitation  of 
natural  Principles,  and  not  like  the  other  arts  in  the  imitation 
of  natural  Forms. 

E.  I  never  know  the  reason  why  our  people  have  not  reached 
some  appropriate  style  of  architecture.  In  Italy  and  Switzer 
land  and  England,  the  picturesque  seems  to  spring  forth  from 
the  soil,  in  the  shapes  of  buildings,  as  well  seasoned  as  its  trees 
and  flowers  themselves.  But  look  at  the  clapboard  farmhouse 
we  are  passing !  Is  there  not  a  needless  degree  of  stiffness  and 
too  little  ornamentation? 

C.  Moderate  your  criticism,  my  dear  Gilpin:  utility  lies  at 
the  bottom  of  our  village  architecture;  the  structure  springs 
out  of  that.  This  simple  edifice,  created  out  of  white  pine- 
boards  and  painted  white;  this  case  of  shingles  and  clapboards 
appears  to  its  owner — who  built  it  and  lives  in  it — anything 
but  ugly  or  unpicturesque :  so  far  from  it,  it  fits  him  like  a 
shell.  Our  climate  has  something  to  answer  for  with  respect  to 
this  scarcity  of  ornament  and  beauty.  The  subtle  influence  of 

188 


THE     LATTER     YEAR 

the  weather  crops  out  in  the  very  clapboards,  as  it  does  also 
in  the  garments  of  the  farmer,  who  gets  their  benefits:  the 
untamable  burning  summer,  the  fatally  penetrative  winter, 
with  warm  places  sometimes  intercalated,  when  the  honey-bees 
come  forth  and  the  black  ploughed  fields  shine  like  a  horse 
after  he  has  been  rubbed  down.  Brick  and  stone  are  too  damp, 
and  the  wall-paper  will  mould  and  the  cellar  run  with  water, 
even  in  the  dryest  wooden  house,  unless  it  be  warmed  through 
out,  so  pungent  is  the  condensing  essence  of  winter.  Then,  if 
you  put  on  outside  adorning,  it  will  be  warred  upon  to  such 
a  degree  by  the  elements  as  to  be  scarcely  appropriate  to  the 
plain  fancies  of  our  farmers :  the  face  of  the  house  is  only  a 
mirror  of  the  climate.  The  roof  should  have  sufficient  steep 
ness  to  carry  off  rain  and  snow  readily,  with  as  few  breaks 
and  angles  as  possible;  the  windows  not  too  large, — in  fact, 
warmth  and  coolness  must,  in  one  of  these  New  England 
houses,  be  consulted  at  the  same  time,  situated  as  they  are  in 
an  excessive  climate.  On  the  sea-coast  the  old  houses  are  usu 
ally  one  story  high,  thus  offering  the  least  surface  to  the  wind. 
The  low  cottage,  all  on  one  floor,  will  not  keep  us  cool  in 
summer;  and  the  high  Italian  style  is  a  comb  of  ice  in  Feb 
ruary.  Then  I  know  that  Mr.  Gilpin  censures  the  location  of 
the  farm-buildings  so  close  upon  the  road,  and  that  he  wishes 
to  set  them  at  the  end  of  an  avenue  a  long  distance  from  the 
entrance-gate;  that  he  equally  detests  the  position  of  the  barn 
within  a  few  rods  of  the  house,- — privacy,  good  taste,  refine 
ment,  as  he  says,  are  thus  all  sacrificed  at  one  blow.  Our 
farmers  cut  the  timber  for  their  mansions  in  their  own  woods, 


THOREAU 

shape  it  themselves,  and  bring  it  upon  the  ground.  Utility, 
economy,  comfort,  and  use,  —  a  dry,  warm  cellar,  a  sweet,  airy 
milk-room,  a  large  wood-shed,  a  barn  with  its  cellars  and  ac 
commodations,  and  all  in  the  most  solid  style, — these  matters 
make  the  study  of  the  farmer.  He  desires  a  house  to  live  in, 
not  to  look  at.  He  must  have  a  pump  in  the  kitchen  and  one 
in  the  cow-yard;  and  the  kitchen,  indeed,  needs  to  be  much 
considered.  It  should  be  warm,  airy,  well  lighted,  connected 
with  cellar,  shed,  yard,  road, — and  in  fact  it  is  a  room  in  use 
most  of  the  time.  The  barn  and  house  must  be  placed  with 
reference  to  the  farm  itself:  near  a  village,  school,  church, 
store,  post-office,  station,  and  the  like.  All  this,  it  is  true,  has 
little  to  do  with  the  fine  art  of  architecture.  Our  native  demo 
crat,  whose  brains,  boots,  and  bones  are  spent  in  composing 
a  free  republic  and  earning  money,  is  growing  up  to  the  fine 
arts,  even  if  at  present  utility  sways  the  balance. 

T.  This  creature,  whose  portrait  you  have  thus  fancifully 
drawn,  looks  like  a  mere  machine  for  gravitating  to  pork  and 
potatoes,  an  economical  syllogism.  I  say  beauty  must  have 
an  equal  place  with  utility,  if  not  a  precedent.  Your  farmer 
shirks  architecture  and  landscape-gardening,  with  one  leg  in 
the  barn  and  the  other  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  compost-heap 
in  the  midst;  and  whose  highest  ambition  is  to  have  a  patent- 
leather  top  to  his  carriage.  Go  to!  you  libel  my  jolly  country 
man.  He  is  no  such  thieving  rat  as  this,  with  a  singed  tail  and 
his  ears  snipped  off.  The  duke  king  of  T'se  had  a  thousand 
teams,  each  of  four  horses;  but  on  the  day  of  his  death  the 
people  did  not  praise  him  for  a  single  virtue. 

[190] 


THE     LATTER     YEAR 

C.  O  brother  Gilpin  !  hearken  ere  you  die.  Those  inveterate 
prejudices  of  yours  for  Vitruvius  and  Inigo  Jones  have  left 
you  too  little  sympathy  with  the  industrious,  able  yeoman  of 
New  England.  I  have  but  drawn  a  few  lines  of  his  portrait. 
The  climate  is  close,  the  soil  difficult,  the  clapboard  edifice 
not  alluring  in  its  aspect.  Let  this  be  so:  the  creator  of  it, 
the  citizen,  stands  up  like  a  king  in  the  midst  of  the  local 
penury.  How  well  he  can  write  and  cipher!  how  intelligent! 
He  receives  the  news  from  all  lands  each  day  in  his  paper, 
and  has  his  monthly  journals  and  lyceum  lectures.  There  is 
a  sweetness,  a  native  pride,  in  the  man,  that  overtops  the 
rugged  necessities  of  his  condition,  and  shoots  its  fine  branches 
heavenward.  His  healthful  economic  industry,  and  that  prac 
tical  education  derived  from  a  constant  use  of  natural  ele 
ments,  and  a  life-long  struggle  against  difficulties,  renders 
him  incredibly  expert  and  capable  of  seizing  all  expedients 
whereby  he  can  better  his  conditions.  The  New  England 
farmer  has  proved  that  an  independent  man,  a  democratic 
citizen,  on  a  poor  soil  and  in  unfavorable  positions,  can  over 
come  the  outward  obstacles.  He  has  solved  the  problem  of 
democracy,  and  must  give  place  to  some  new  forms  of  so 
ciety,  when  all  the  arts  shall  be  employed  in  the  construction 
of  the  estate. 

E.  "Boon  nature  yields  each  day  a  brag  which  we  now  first  behold, 
And  trains  us  on  to  slight  the  new  as  if  it  were  the  old ; 
And  blest  is  he  who  playing  deep,  yet  haply  asks  not  why, 
Too  busy  with  the  crowded  day  to  fear  to  live  or  die." 

[191  ] 


THOREAU 

W  A  L  D  E  N 

C.  I  believe  you  take  some  note  of  the  seasons.  Pray,  what 
is  this?  On  our  old  path  to  Walden  Pond  I  cannot  really  de 
cide  whether  I  or  the  world  have  had  the  opiate.  Assuredly  it 
must  be  autumn,  if  it  is  not  summer.  How  tacitly  the  pond 
sleeps !  These  pine-stumps,  after  the  pitch  is  dry,  make  excel 
lent  seats.  The  semi-clouded  sky  images  itself  so  truthfully  in 
the  slumbering  water  that  sky  and  water  form  one  piece,  and 
the  glancing  swallows  flying  above  that  invisible  surface  seem 
to  be  playing  with  their  own  images  reversed.  Not  with  the 
very  utmost  scrutiny  can  I  distinguish  between  the  twain. 
And  so  you  think  the  superiorities  of  the  Englishman  grow 
out  of  his  insular  climate.  Shakespeare's  beauties  were  never 
cradled  on  the  rack  of  a  New  English  summer.  If  our  land 
scape  stew  with  heat,  the  brain  becomes  another  stew-pan.  As 
most  of  our  days  are  unutterably  brilliant,  I  enjoy  the  few 
scattered  gray  and  lowering  ones,  half-shade  and  half-shine, 
the  negative  days. 

E.  In  the  turbulent  beauty 
Of  a  gusty  autumn  day, 
Poet  on  a  sunny  headland 
Sighed  his  soul  away. 
Farms  the  sunny  landscape  dappled, 
Swan-down  clouds  dappled  the  farms, 
Cattle  lowed  in  hollow  distance 
Where  far  oaks  outstretched  their  arms. 
Sudden  gusts  came  full  of  meaning, 
All  too  much  to  him  they  said, 

[192] 


THE     LATTER     YEAR 

South  winds  have  long  memories, 

Of  that  be  none  afraid. 

I  cannot  tell  rude  listeners 

Half  the  tell-tale  south  wind  said, 

'T  would  bring  the  blushes  of  yon  maples 

To  a  man  and  to  a  maid. 

The  golden  loveliness  of  autumn, — was  that  your  phrase? 

C.  Rather  fine,  methinks,  for  the  like  of  me ! 

T.  A  pretty  rustic  wreath  could  be  braided  of  wild  berries 
now,  including  such  as  the  dark  blue  magical  berries  of  the 
red-osier  cornel,  the  maple-leaved  viburnum  with  its  small 
bluish-black  berries,  and,  though  so  fragile,  we  might  add,  for 
the  passing  hour,  the  purple  might  of  the  great  elderberry 
clusters.  Why  not  wreathe  wild  grapes,  prinos,  and  smilax 
berries  together,  and  the  berries  of  the  andromeda?  Then  the 
purple-stemmed  golden-rod  and  the  blue  gentian's  flowers 
should  not  be  omitted  from  this  votive  offering  to  Ceres;  and 
it  should  be  suspended  from  a  white  maple  whence  we  could 
steal  a  glimpse  through  the  charming  Septembrian  sunflood, 
with  its  sense  of  fulness  and  everlasting  life,  over  the  quiver 
ing  river  that  is  blue  and  sunny,  silvery,  golden,  and  azure  at 
once,  transparent  olives  and  olive-greens  glazed  to  a  complete 
polish,  and  bounded  by  the  softest  shimmer,  not  transparent. 
I  have  been  reading  a  report  on  herbaceous  plants.  The  mere 
names  of  reeds  and  grasses,  of  the  milkweeds  and  the  mints, 
the  gentians,  the  mallows  and  trefoils,  are  poems.  Erigeron, 
because  it  grows  old  early,  is  the  old  man  of  the  spring;  Py- 
rola  umbellata  is  called  chimaphUa,  lover  of  winter,  since  its 

[193] 


THOREAU 

green  leaves  look  so  cheerful  in  the  snow;  also  called  prince V 
pine.  The  plantain  (Plantago  major),  which  follows  man  wher 
ever  he  builds  a  house,  is  called  by  the  Indians  white-man's 
foot;  and  I  like  well  to  see  a  mother  or  one  of  her  girls 
stepping  outside  of  the  door  with  a  lamp,  for  its  leaf,  at 
night,  to  dress  some  slight  wound  or  inflamed  hand  or  foot. 
My  old  pet,  the  Liatris,  acquires  some  new  interest  from  be 
ing  an  approved  remedy  for  the  bite  of  serpents,  and  hence 
called  rattlesnakes-master.  Fire-weed,  or  Hieracium,  springs 
up  abundantly  on  burnt  land.  The  aromatic  fields  of  dry  Gna- 
phalium  with  its  pearly  incorruptible  flower,  and  the  sweet- 
flags  with  their  bayonet-like  flash,  wave  again,  thanks  to  this 
dull  professor,  in  my  memory,  on  even  a  cold  winter's  morn 
ing.  Even  the  naming  of  the  localities — ponds,  shady  woods, 
wet  pastures,  and  the  like — comforts  us.  But  this  heavy  coun 
try  professor  insults  some  of  my  favorites, — the  well-beloved 
Lespedeza,  for  instance;  the  beautiful  Epigcea,  or  Mayflower, 
— pride  of  Plymouth  hermits.  The  hills  still  bear  the  remem 
brance  of  sweet  berries ;  and  I  suppose  the  apple  or  the  huckle 
berry  to  have  this  comfortable  fitness  to  the  human  palate, 
because  they  are  only  the  palate  inverted:  one  is  man  eating, 
and  the  other  man  eatable.  The  Mikania  scandens,  with  its 
purplish-white  flowers,  now  covers  the  button-bushes  and 
willows,  by  the  side  of  streams;  and  the  large-flowered  bidens 
(chrysanthemoides),  and  various-colored  polygonums,  white 
and  reddish  and  red,  stand  high  among  the  bushes  and  weeds 
by  the  river-side;  and,  in  modest  seclusion,  our  scarlet  impe 
rialists,  the  lordly  Cardinals. 

[  194  ] 


THE     LATTER     YEAR 

C.  You  have  a  rare  season  in  your  shanty  by  the  pond. 

T.  I  have  gained  considerable  time  for  study  and  writing, 
and  proved  to  my  satisfaction  that  life  may  be  maintained  at 
less  cost  and  labor  than  by  the  old  social  plan.  Yet  I  would 
not  insist  upon  any  one^s  trying  it  who  has  not  a  pretty  good 
supply  of  internal  sunshine;  otherwise  he  would  have,  I  judge, 
to  spend  too  much  of  his  time  in  fighting  with  his  dark 
humors.  To  live  alone  comfortably,  we  must  have  that  self- 
comfort  which  rays  out  of  Nature, — a  portion  of  it  at  least. 

C.  I  sometimes  feel  the  coldest  days 

A  beam  upon  the  snow-drift  thrown, 
As  if  the  sun's  declining  rays 

Were  with  his  summer  comforts  sown. 

The  icy  marsh,  so  cold  and  gray, 

Hemmed  with  its  alder  copses  brown, 
The  ruined  walls,  the  dying  day, 

Make  in  my  dream  a  landscape  crown. 

And  sweet  the  walnuts  in  the  fall, 

And  bright  the  apples'  lavished  store ; 
Thus  sweet  my  winter's  pensive  call, 

O'er  cold,  gray  marsh,  o'er  upland  hoar. 

And  happier  still  that  we  can  roam 

Free  and  untrammelled  o'er  the  land, 
And  think  the  fields  and  clouds  are  home, 

Not  forced  to  press  some  stranger's  hand. 


[195] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 


"There's  nothing  left 
Unto  Andrugio  but  Andrugio :  and  that 
Not  mischief,  force,  distress,  nor  hell  can  take ; 
Fortune  my  fortunes  not  my  mind  shall  shake." 

MARSTON. 

"  There,  your  Majesty,  what  a  glimpse,  as  into  infinite  extinct  Conti 
nents,  filled  with  ponderous,  thorny  inanities,  invincible  nasal  drawling 
of  didactic  Titans,  and  the  awful  attempt  to  spin,  on  all  manner  of 
wheels,  road-harness  out  of  split  cobwebs :  Hoom !  Hoom-m-m !  Harness 
not  to  be  had  on  those  terms." 

CARLYLE'S  FREDERICK. 

"  My  dears,  you  are  like  the  heroines  of  romance,  — jewels  in  abundance, 
but  scarce  a  rag  to  your  backs." 

MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 

f 


CHAPTER     XI 
MULTUM    IN    PARVO 

As  already  noticed,  Thoreau  believed  that  one  of  the  arts  of 
life  was  to  make  the  most  out  of  it.  He  loved  the  multum  in 
parvo,  or  pot-luck;  to  boil  up  the  little  into  the  big.  Thus, 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying, — Give  me  healthy  senses,  let 
me  be  thoroughly  alive,  and  breathe  freely  in  the  very  flood- 
tide  of  the  living  world.  But  this  should  have  availed  him 
little,  if  he  had  not  been  at  the  same  time  copiously  endowed 
with  the  power  of  recording  what  he  imbibed.  His  senses  truly 
lived  twice. 

Many  thousands  of  travellers  pass  under  the  telegraph 
poles,  and  descry  in  them  only  a  line  of  barked  chestnuts:  to 
our  poet-naturalist  they  came  forth  a  Dodona's  sacred  grove, 
and  like  the  old  Grecian  landscapes  followed  the  phantasy  of 
our  Concord  Orpheus,  twanging  on  their  road. 

(Thoreaits  Journal,  September  3,  1851.)  "As  I  went  under 
the  new  telegraph  wire,  I  heard  it  vibrating  like  a  harp  high 
overhead;  it  was  as  the  sound  of  a  far-off  glorious  life;  a  su 
pernal  life  which  came  down  to  us,  and  vibrated  the  lattice 
work  of  this  life  of  ours, — an  ^Eolian  harp.  It  reminded  me, 
I  say,  with  a  certain  pathetic  moderation,  of  what  finer  and 
deeper  stirrings  I  was  susceptible,  which  grandly  set  all  argu 
ment  and  dispute  aside;  a  triumphant  though  transient  exhi 
bition  of  the  truth.  It  told  me,  by  the  finest  strain  that  a  hu 
man  ear  can  hear, — yet  conclusively  and  past  all  refutation, 

[199] 


THOREAU 

—that  there  were  higher  (infinitely  higher)  planes  of  life, 
which  it  behooved  me  not  to  forget.  As  I  was  entering  the 
Deep  Cut,1  the  wind,  which  was  conveying  a  message  to  me 
from  Heaven,  dropt  it  on  the  wire  of  the  telegraph,  which  it 
vibrated  as  it  past.  I  instantly  sat  down  on  a  stone  at  the  foot 
of  the  telegraph  pole,  and  attended  to  the  communication.  It 
merely  said :  '  Bear  in  mind,  Child,  and  never  for  an  instant 
forget,  that  there  are  higher  planes,  infinitely  higher  planes 
of  life  than  this  thou  art  now  travelling  on.  Know  that  the 
goal  is  distant  and  is  upward,  and  is  worthy  all  your  life's 
efforts  to  attain  to.'  And  then  it  ceased;  and  tho1  I  sat  some 
minutes  longer,  I  heard  nothing  more." 

(September  12.)  "There  is  every  variety  and  degree  of  in 
spiration,  from  mere  fulness  of  life  to  the  most  rapt  mood.  A 
human  soul  is  played  on  even  as  this  wire;  which  now  vibrates 
slowly  and  gently,  so  that  the  passer  can  hardly  hear  it;  and 
anon  the  sound  swells  and  vibrates  with  such  intensity  as  if  it 
would  rend  the  wire,  as  far  as  the  elasticity  and  tension  of  the 
wire  permits;  and  now  it  dies  away  and  is  silent;  and  though 
the  breeze  continues  to  sweep  over  it,  no  strain  comes  from  it, 
and  the  traveller  hearkens  in  vain.  It  is  no  small  gain  to  have 
this  wire  stretched  through  Concord,  though  there  is  no  office 
here.  I  make  my  own  use  of  the  telegraph,  without  consulting 
the  Directors;  like  the  sparrows,  which,  I  observe,  use  it  ex 
tensively  for  a  perch.  Shall  I  not  go  to  this  office,  to  hear  if 
there  is  any  communication  for  me,  as  steadily  as  to  the  Post- 
office  in  the  Village?" 

1  Of  the  Fitchburg  Railroad,  towards  Lincoln. 
[   200  ] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

(September  22.)  "The  stronger  winds  of  autumn  have  begun 
to  blow,  and  the  telegraph-harp  has  sounded  loudly.  I  heard 
it  especially  this  afternoon, — the  tone  varying  with  the  ten 
sion  of  different  parts  of  the  wire.  The  sound  proceeds  from 
near  the  posts,  where  the  vibration  is  apparently  more  rapid. 
I  put  my  ear  to  one  post,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  every  pore 
of  the  wood  was  filled  with  music.  It  labored  with  the  strain 
as  if  every  fibre  was  affected,  and  being  seasoned  or  tuned,— 
rearranged  according  to  a  new  and  more  harmonious  law. 
Every  swell  and  change  and  inflection  of  tone  pervaded  and 
seemed  to  proceed  from  the  wood, — a  divine  tree  or  wood, — 
as  if  its  very  substance  was  transmuted. 

"What  a  recipe  for  preserving  wood, — perchance  to  pre 
serve  it  from  rotting, — to  fill  its  pores  with  music!  How  this 
wild  tree  from  the  forest,  stripped  of  its  bark  and  set  up  here, 
rejoices  to  transmit  this  music !  When  no  music  proceeds  from 
the  wire,  on  applying  my  ear  I  hear  the  hum  within  the  en 
trails  of  the  wood, — the  oracular  tree  acquiring,  accumulating 
the  prophetic  fury!  The  resounding  wood!  how  much  the 
ancients  would  have  made  of  it !  To  have  a  harp  on  so  great 
a  scale,  girdling  the  very  earth,  and  played  on  by  the  winds 
of  every  latitude  and  longitude;  and  that  harp  (as  it  were) 
the  manifest  blessing  of  Heaven  on  a  work  of  Man^s !  Shall  we 
not  add  a  tenth  Muse  to  the  immortal  Nine,  and  say  that  the 
invention  was  divinely  honored  and  distinguished  on  which 
the  Muse  has  condescended  to  smile?  is  the  magic  medium  of 
communication  for  mankind?  May  we  read  that  the  ancients 
stretched  a  wire  round  the  earth,  attaching  it  to  the  trees  of 

[  201  ] 


THOREAU 

the  forest,  by  which  they  sent  messages  by  one  named  Elec 
tricity,  father  of  Lightning  and  Magnetism,  swifter  far  than 
Mercury, — the  stern  commands  of  war  and  the  news  of  peace, 
— and  that  the  winds  caused  this  wire  to  vibrate,  so  that  it 
emitted  an  yEolian  music  in  all  the  lands  through  which  it 
passed,  as  if  to  express  the  satisfaction  of  the  Gods  in  this 
invention?  Yet  this  is  fact;  and  we  have  yet  attributed  the 
invention  to  no  god. 

"The  Telegraph-harp  sounds  strongly  in  the  midst  of  the 
rain.  I  put  my  ear  to  the  tree,  and  I  hear  it  working  terribly 
within;  and  anon  it  swells  into  a  clear  tone  which  seems  to 
concentrate  in  the  core  of  the  tree;  for  all  the  sound  seems 
to  proceed  from  the  wood.  It  is  as  if  you  had  entered  some 
world-famous  cathedral,  resounding  to  some  vast  organ.  The 
fibres  of  all  things  have  their  tension,  and  are  strained  like 
the  strings  of  a  lyre.  I  feel  the  very  ground  tremble  under 
neath  my  feet  as  I  stand  near  the  post.  This  wire  vibrates 
with  great  power,  as  if  it  would  strain  and  rend  the  wood. 
What  an  awful  and  fateful  music  it  must  be  to  the  worms  in 
the  wood !  No  better  vermifuge  were  needed.  As  the  wood  of 
an  old  Cremona — its  very  fibre  perchance  harmoniously 
transposed,  and  educated  to  resound  melody — has  brought  a 
great  price,  so,  methinks,  these  telegraph  posts  should  bear 
a  great  price  with  musical  instrument  makers.  They  are  pre 
pared  to  be  the  material  of  harps  for  ages  to  come ;  as  it  were, 
put  a-soak  and  seasoning  in  music." 

Much  more  was  he,  who  drew  this  ravishing  noise  off  a  stale 
[  202  ] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

post,  a  golden  wire  of  communication  with  the  blessed  divini 
ties!  With  poetic  insight  he  married  practical  perception; 
avoiding  that  flying  off  in  space,  like  the  writings  of  some 
who  pursued  the  leading  of  the  Rev.  Bismiller,  where  there 
is  the  theatrical  breadth  of  a  pasteboard  sky,  with  not  much 
life  rolling  in  it, 

"  But  troops  of  smoothing  people  that  collaud 
All  that  we  do." 

Or,  as  he  observes,  "Not  till  after  several  months  does  an  in 
fant  find  its  hands,  and  it  may  be  seen  looking  at  them  with 
astonishment,  holding  them  up  to  the  light;  and  so  also  it 
finds  its  toes.  How  many  faculties  there  are  which  we  have 
never  found !  We  want  the  greatest  variety  within  the  small 
est  compass,  and  yet  without  glaring  diversity,  and  we  have 
it  in  the  color  of  the  withered  oak -leaves."  He  speaks  of  fleets 
of  yellow  butterflies,  and  of  the  gray  squirrels  on  their  wind 
ing  way,  on  their  unweariable  legs.  Distant  thunder  is  the 
battle  of  the  air.  "A  cow  looking  up  at  the  sky  has  an 
almost  human  or  wood-god,  faun-like  expression,  and  re 
minded  me  of  some  frontispiece  to  Virgil's  Bucolics.  When 
the  red-eye  (Vireo)  ceases,  then,  I  think,  is  a  crisis.  The 
pigeons,  with  their  quivet,  dashed  over  the  Duganne  desert." 
When  the  snow-birds  flew  off,  their  wave  actually  broke  over 
him,  as  if  he  were  a  rock.  He  sees  two  squirrels  answering 
one  to  the  other,  as  it  were,  like  a  vibrating  watchspring,— 
they  withdrew  to  their  airy  houses.  ..."  When  turning  my 
head  I  looked  at  the  willowy  edges  of  Cyanean  meadow,  and 

[  203  ] 


THOREAU 

onward  to  the  sober-colored  but  fine-grained  Clam-shell  hills, 
about  which  there  was  no  glitter,  I  was  inclined  to  think 
that  the  truest  beauty  was  that  which  surrounded  us,  but 
which  we  failed  to  discern ;  that  the  forms  and  colors  which 
adorn  our  daily  life,  not  seen  afar  in  the  horizon,  are  our 
fairest  jewelry.  The  beauty  of  Clam-shell  hill  near  at  hand, 
with  its  sandy  ravines,  in  which  the  cricket  chirps, — this  is 
an  occidental  city,  not  less  glorious  than  we  dream  of  in  the 
sunset  sky. 

"At  Clematis  Brook  I  perceive  that  the  pods  or  follicles  of 
the  common  milkweed  (Asclepias  syriacd]  now  point  upward. 
They  are  already  bursting.  I  release  some  seeds  with  the  long, 
fine  silk  attached:  the  fine  threads  fly  apart  at  once  (open 
with  a  spring),  and  then  ray  themselves  out  into  a  hemi 
spherical  form,  each  thread  freeing  itself  from  its  neighbor, 
and  all  reflecting  rainbow  or  prismatic  tints.  The  seeds  beside 
are  furnished  with  wings,  which  plainly  keep  them  steady, 
and  prevent  their  whirling  round.  I  let  one  go,  and  it  rises 
slowly  and  uncertainly  at  first,  now  driven  this  way,  then 
that,  by  currents  which  I  cannot  perceive,  and  I  fear  it  will 
shipwreck  against  the  neighboring  wood;  but  no!  as  it  ap 
proaches,  it  surely  rises  above  it,  and  then,  feeling  the  strong 
north  wind,  it  is  borne  off  rapidly  in  the  opposite  direction, 
ever  rising  higher  and  higher,  and  tossing  and  heaved  about 
with  every  fluctuation  of  the  gale,  till  at  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  earth,  and  fifty  rods  off,  steering  south,  I  lose 
sight  of  it.  I  watched  this  milkweed-seed,  for  the  time,  with 
as  much  interest  as  his  friends  did  Mr.  Lauriat  disappearing 

[  204  ] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

in  the  skies.  How  many  myriads  go  sailing  away  at  this  sea 
son, — high  over  hill  and  meadow  and  river,  to  plant  their 
race  in  new  localities, — on  various  tacks,  until  the  wind  lulls, 
who  can  tell  how  many  miles !  And  for  this  end  these  silken 
streamers  have  been  perfecting  all  summer,  snugly  packed  in 
this  light  chest,  a  prophecy  not  only  of  the  fall,  but  of  future 
springs.  Who  could  believe  in  the  prophecies  of  a  Daniel  or 
of  Miller,  that  the  world  would  end  this  summer,  while  one 
milkweed  with  faith  matured  its  seeds?  Densely  packed  in  a 
little  oblong  chest,  armed  with  soft,  downy  prickles,  and  lined 
with  a  smooth,  silky  lining,  lie  some  hundreds  of  seeds,  pear- 
shaped,  or  like  a  steelyard's  poise,  which  have  derived  their 
nutriment  through  a  band  of  extremely  fine,  silken  threads, 
attached  by  their  extremities  to  the  core.  At  length,  when 
the  seeds  are  matured  and  cease  to  require  nourishment  from 
the  parent  plant,  being  weaned,  and  the  pod  with  dryness 
and  frost  bursts,  the  extremities  of  the  silken  thread  detach 
themselves  from  the  core,  and  from  being  the  conduits  of 
nutriment  to  the  seed  become  the  buoyant  balloon  which, 
like  some  spiders'*  webs,  bear  the  seeds  to  new  and  distant 
fields.  They  merely  serve  to  buoy  up  the  full-fed  seeds,  far 
finer  than  the  finest  thread.  Think  of  the  great  variety  of 
balloons  which,  at  this  season,  are  buoyed  up  by  similar 
means.  I  am  interested  in  the  fate,  or  success,  of  every  such 
venture  which  the  autumn  sends  forth." 

A  well-known  writer  says  he  looked  at  the  present  moment 
as  a  man  does  upon  a  card  upon  which  he  has  staked  a  con 
siderable  sum,  and  who  seeks  to  enhance  its  value  as  much  as 

[  205  ] 


THOREAU 

he  can  without  exaggeration.  Thoreau  had  a  like  practice, — 
the  great  art  is  judiciously  to  limit  and  isolate  one's  self,  and 
life  is  so  short  we  must  miss  no  opportunity  of  giving  plea 
sure  to  one  another.  No  doubt  our  author's  daily  writing,  his 
careful  observation  in  his  own  mind,  lay  as  a  mass  of  gold, 
out  of  which  he  should  coin  a  good  circulating  medium  for 
the  benefit  of  other  minds.  Nothing  which  has  not  sequence 
is  of  any  value  in  life.  And  he  held  to  an  oft-repeated  dic 
tum,  "Whatever  is  very  good  sense  must  have  been  common- 
sense  in  all  times.  I  fairly  confess  I  have  served  myself  all  I 
could  by  writing:  that  I  made  use  of  the  judgment  of  authors, 
dead  and  living.  If  I  have  written  well,  let  it  be  considered  it 
is  what  no  man  can  do  without  good  sense, — a  quality  that 
renders  one  not  only  capable  of  being  a  good  writer,  but  a 
good  man.  To  take  more  pains  and  employ  more  time  cannot 
fail  to  produce  more  complete  pieces.  The  ancients  constantly 
applied  to  art,  and  to  that  single  branch  of  an  art  to  which 
their  talent  was  most  powerfully  bent;  and  it  was  the  busi 
ness  of  their  lives  to  correct  and  finish  their  works  for  pos 
terity: — 

"Nor  Fame  I  slight,  nor  for  her  favors  call ; 
She  comes  unlock' d  for,  if  she  comes  at  all.  — 
Who  pants  for  glory  finds  but  short  repose." 

Then  thinkers  are  so  varied.  The  Mahometans  taught  fate 
in  religion,  and  that  nothing  exists  that  does  not  suppose  its 
contrary.  Some  believe  that  cork-trees  grow  merely  that  we 
may  have  stoppers  to  our  bottles.  St.  Augustine,  in  his  "  City 
of  God,1'  mentions  a  man  who  could  perspire  when  he  pleased. 

[  206  ] 


MULTUM    IN    PARVO 

Napoleon  classed  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  and  the 
Koran,  under  the  head  of  politics.  One  says,  a  fact  of  our 
lives  is  valuable,  not  according  as  it  is  true,  but  as  it  is  signifi 
cant.  Thoreau  would  scarcely  have  upheld  this.  But  he  could 
assert  "that  no  greater  evil  can  happen  to  any  one  than  to 
hate  reasoning.  Man  is  evidently  made  for  thinking:  this  is 
the  whole  of  his  dignity,  and  the  whole  of  his  merit.  To  think 
as  he  ought  is  the  whole  of  his  duty." 

After  our  dear  lover  of  Nature  had  retired  from  Walden,  a 
rustic  rhymer1  hung  up  on  the  walls  of  his  deserted  sanctuary 
some  irregular  verses,  as  an  interpretation:  — 

WALDEN     HERMITAGE 

Who  bricked  this  chimney  small 

I  well  do  know ; 

Know  who  spread  the  mortar  on  the  wall, 

And  the  shingles  nailed  through; 

Yes,  have  seen  thee, 

Thou  small,  rain-tinted  hermitage ! 

And  spread  aside  the  pitch-pine  tree 

That  shaded  the  brief  edge 

Of  thy  snug  roof,  — 

'T  was  water-proof! 

Have  seen  thee,  Walden  lake ! 
Like  burnished  glass  to  take 
With  thy  daguerreotype 
Each  cloud,  each  tree, 
More  firm  yet  free  : 

1  Channing. 

[  207  ] 


THOREAU 

Have  seen  and  known,  — 
Yes,  as  I  hear  and  know 
Some  echo's  faintest  tone. 
All,  all  have  fled, 
Man,  and  cloud,  and  shed. 

"What  man  was  this, 

Who  thus  could  build, 

Of  what  complexion, 

At  what  learning  skilled  ? 

Is 't  the  lake  I  see  down  there, 

Like  a  glass  of  simmering  air?" 

So  might  that  stranger  say. 

To  him  I  might  reply,  — 

"  You  ask  me  for  the  man.  Hand  yesterday, 

Or  to-morrow,  or  a  star  from  the  sky : 

More  mine  are  they  than  he ; 

But  that  he  lived,  I  tell  to  thee. 

"That  man's  heart  was  true, 

As  the  sky  in  living  blue, 

And  the  old  contented  rocks 

That  the  mountains  heap  in  blocks. 

Wilt  dare  to  do  as  he  did, 

Dwell  alone  and  bide  thy  time  ? 

Not  with  lies  be  over-rid, 

And  turn  thy  griefs  to  rhyme  ? 

True !  do  you  call  him  true  ? 

Look  upon  the  eaglet's  eye, 

Wheeled  amid  the  freezing  blue, 

In  the  unfathomable  sky, 

With  cold  and  blasts  and  light  his  speed  to  try ! 

[  208  ] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

" And  should  I  tell  thee  that  this  man  was  good? 

Never  thought  his  neighbor  harm, 

Sweet  was  it  where  he  stood, 

Sunny  all,  and  warm. 

Good? 

So  the  rolling  star  seems  good, 

That  miscalculates  not,, 

Nor  sparkles  even  a  jot 

Out  of  its  place,  — 

Period  of  unlettered  space." 

Might  once  more  some  stranger  ask, 

I  should  reply : 

"Why  this  man  was  high, 

And  lofty,  is  not  his  task, 

Nor  mine,  to  tell : 

Springs  flow  from  the  invisible. 

But  on  this  shore  he  used  to  play ; 

There  his  boat  he  hid  away, 

And  where  has  this  man  fled  to-day? 

Mark  the  small,  gray  hermitage 

Touch  yon  curved  lake's  sandy  edge; 

The  pines  are  his  you  firmly  see. 

"He  never  goes, — 

But  thou  must  come, 

As  the  wind  blows ; 

He  surely  sits  at  home. 

In  his  eye  the  thing  must  stand, 

In  his  thought  the  world  command ; 

As  a  clarion  shrills  the  morn, 

On  his  arms  the  world  be  borne. 

[  209  ] 


THOREAU 

Beat  with  thy  paddle  on  the  boat, 
Midway  the  lake,  —  the  wood  repeats 
The  ordered  blow ;  the  echoing  note 
Has  ended  in  the  ear,  yet  its  retreats 
Contain  more  possibilities ; 
And  in  this  Man  the  nature  lies 
Of  woods  so  green, 
And  lakes  so  sheen, 
And  hermitages  edged  between." 

Chatterton,  a  literary  disciple,  whose  shanty  stood  on  Lon 
don  streets,  thus  vents  his  history:  "I  am  quite  familiar  at 
the  Chapter  Coffee-house,  and  know  all  the  geniuses  there.  A 
character  is  now  unnecessary:  an  author  carries  his  character 
in  his  pen.  Good  God,  how  superior  is  London  to  that  des 
picable  Bristol !  The  poverty  of  authors  is  a  common  observa 
tion,  but  not  always  a  true  one.  No  author  can  be  poor  who 
understands  the  arts  of  booksellers.  No:  it  is  my  pride,  my 
damned,  native,  unconquerable  pride,  that  plunges  me  into 
distraction.11  And  another  asks,  "What  could  Stephen  Duck 
do?  what  could  Chatterton  do?  Neither  of  them  had  oppor 
tunities  of  enlarging  their  stock  of  ideas.  No  man  can  coin 
guineas  but  in  proportion  as  he  has  gold.11  Even  that  touch 
upon  booksellers1  arts  did  not  prevent  our  brother  from  starv 
ing  to  death  three  months  after  in  London. 

Thoreau  would  not  have  said,  with  Voltaire,  "Ah,  croyez- 
moi,  Terreur  a  son  merite" — believe  me,  sin  has  something 
worthy  in  it, — which  is  the  same  as  Goethe^  "Even  in  God 
I  discover  defects11;  but  he  would  recognize  the  specific  value 

[  210  ] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

of  events.  The  directions  of  men  are  singular.  He  knew  one 
in  Sudbury  who  used  to  fat  mud-turtles,  having  a  great  appe 
tite  for  them;  another  used  to  eat  those  imposthumes  on  wild 
rose-bushes,  which  are  made  by  worms  and  contain  an  ounce 
of  maggots  each.  But  why  criticise  poor  human  nature,  when 
a  black  snake  that  has  just  laid  her  eggs  on  a  tussock  in  the 
meadow  (some  were  hatching,  and  some  hatched),  upon  being 
alarmed,  swallows  them  all  down  in  a  lump  for  safe  keeping, 
and  no  doubt  produces  them  afresh  at  a  convenient  time?  Na 
ture,  as  Thoreau  said,  does  have  her  dawn  each  day;  and  her 
economical  code  of  laws  does  riot  consult  taste  or  high  art,  as 
in  the  above  salvation  of  so  inconvenient  a  morsel  as  a  snake's 
offspring.  He  sometimes  caught  sight  of  the  inside  of  things 
by  artificial  means ;  and  notices  that  the  young  mud-turtle  is  a 
hieroglyphic  of  snappishness  a  fortnight  before  it  is  hatched, 
like  the  virtue  of  bottled  cider.  "When  the  robin  ceases,  then 
I  think  is  an  exit,  .  .  .  the  concert  is  over."  He  could  see  a 
revolution  in  the  end  of  a  bird's  song,  and  he  used  working 
abroad,  like  the  artist  who  painted  out-of-doors,  and  believed 
that  lights  and  a  room  were  absurdities,  and  that  a  picture 
could  be  painted  anywhere.  So  must  a  man  be  moral  every 
where,  and  he  must  not  expect  that  Nature  will  take  a  scrub 
bing-brush  and  clean  her  entries  for  his  steps,  seeing  how 
sentimental  a  fellow  is  our  brother. 

The  Eombyx  pini,  the  pine  spider,  the  most  destructive  of 
all  forest  insects,  is  infested,  so  says  Ratzeburg,  by  thirty-five 
parasitical  ichneumonidae.  And  infirmity  that  decays  the  wise 
doth  ever  make  the  better  fool.  Wisdom  is 

[211  ] 


THOREAU 

"Not  to  know  at  large  of  things  remote 
From  use,  obscure  and  subtle,,  but  to  know 
That  which  before  us  lies  in  daily  use." 

The  love  of  our  poet-naturalist  for  the  open  air,  his  hy- 
paethral  character,  has  been  dwelt  upon.  Such  was  his  enjoy 
ment  in  that  outward  world,  it  seemed  as  if  his  very  self 
became  a  cast  of  nature,  with  the  outlines  of  humanity  fair 
and  perfect;  but  that  intensity  of  apprehension  did,  with  cer 
tain  minds,  accuse  him  of  egotism.  Not  self,  but  rather  that 
creation  of  which  he  was  a  part,  asserted  itself  there.  As  it 
was  said : — 

"For  chiefly  here  thy  worth, — 
Greatly  in  this,  that  unabated  trust, 
Amplest  reliance  on  the  unceasing  truth 
That  rules  and  guides  the  darting  sphere  about  us,  — 
Truth  that  drives  thoughtful  round  the  unthinking  ball, 
And  buds  the  ignorant  germs  on  life  and  time, 
Of  men  and  beasts  and  birds,  themselves  the  sport 
Of  a  clear,  healthful  prescience,  still  unspent." 

He  admired  plants  and  trees :  truly,  he  loved  them.  Doubt 
not  it  was  their  infinite  beauty  which  first  impressed  them  on 
him;  but  then  he  greatly  held  that  art  of  science  which,  tak 
ing  up  the  miscellaneous  crowd,  impaled  them  in  the  picket- 
fences  of  order,  and  coined  a  labelled  scientific  plan  from  the 
phenomenal  waste-basket  of  vulgar  observation.  A  hearty 
crack  in  Latin  he  rejoiced  at;  not  merely  because  he  had  di 
gested  it  early,  but  as  a  stencil-tool  for  the  mind.  He  prized 
a  substantial  name  for  a  thing  beyond  most  sublunary  joys. 


MULTUM     IN    PARVO 

Name  it !  name  it !  he  might  have  cried  to  the  blessed  fortune. 
"He  shall  be  as  a  god  to  me  who  can  rightly  define  and 
divide.  The  subjects  on  which  the  master  did  not  talk  were,— 
extraordinary  things,  feats  of  strength,  disorder,  and  spiritual 
beings.  What  the  superior  man  seeks  is  in  himself:  what 
the  mean  man  seeks  is  in  others.  By  weighing  we  know  what 
things  are  light  and  what  heavy;  by  measuring  we  know 
what  things  are  long  and  what  short.  It  is  of  the  greatest 
importance  to  measure  the  motions  of  the  mind.'" 

"  Mills  of  the  gods  do  slowly  wind,, 
But  they  at  length  to  powder  grind." 

He  loved  what  the  Prussian  king  says  to  his  brother, — "I 
write  this  letter  with  the  rough  common-sense  of  a  German, 
who  speaks  what  he  thinks,  without  employing  equivocal 
terms  and  loose  assuagements  which  disfigure  the  truth."  But 
it  may  be  feared  he  would  have  stopped  running,  when  Fichte 
thus  laid  his  finger  on  the  destination  of  man :  "  My  conscious 
ness  of  the  object  is  only  a  yet  unrecognized  consciousness  of 
my  production  of  the  representation  of  an  object;1'  although 
he  admired  Blake's  description, — 

"My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 

And  I  am  black,  but,  oh !  my  soul  is  white,  — 
White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black  as  if  bereaved  of  light." 

For  pure,  nonsensical  abstractions  he  had  no  taste.  No  work 
on  metaphysics  found  room  on  his  shelves  unless  by  suffer 
ance;  there  being  some  Spartan  metaphysicians  who  send  you 


THOREAU 

their  books, — like  the  witty  lecturer  who  sent  cards  of  invita 
tion  to  his  lectures,  and  then  you  had  to  come.  Neither  did 
he  keep  moral  treatises,  though  he  would  not  say,  "what  we 
call  good  is  nothing  else  than  egoism  painted  with  verbiage,"" 
like  the  Frenchman.  "Stick  your  nose  into  any  gutter,  entity, 
or  object,  this  of  Motion  or  another,  with  obstinacy,  you  will 
easily  drown  if  that  be  your  determination.  Time,  at  its  own 
pleasure,  will  untie  the  knot  of  destiny,  if  there  be  one,  like 
a  shot  of  electricity  through  an  elderly,  sick  household  cat." 
We  do  not  bind  ourselves  to  men  by  exaggerating  those  pe 
culiarities  in  which  we  happen  to  differ  from  them. 

(August  £1-87,  1851.)  "I  perceive  on  the  blue  vervain 
(Verbena  hastatd)  that  only  one  circle  of  buds,  about  half  a 
dozen,  blossoms  at  a  time;  and  there  are  about  thirty  circles 
in  the  space  of  three  inches;  while  the  next  circle  of  buds 
above  at  the  same  time  shows  the  blue.  Thus  this  triumphant 
blossoming  circle  travels  upward,  driving  the  remaining  buds 
off  into  space.  It  is  very  pleasant  to  measure  the  progress  of 
the  season  by  this  and  similar  clocks.  So  you  get  not  the  ab 
solute  but  the  true  time  of  the  season. 

"I  have  now  found  all  the  Hawkweeds.  Singular  are  these 
genera  of  plants, — plants  manifestly  related,  yet  distinct. 
They  suggest  a  history  to  nature, — a  natural  history  in  a  new 
sense.  I  saw  some  smilax  vines  in  the  swamp,  which  were  con 
nected  with  trees  ten  feet  above  the  ground  wherein  they 
grew,  and  four  or  five  feet  above  the  surrounding  bushes.  Have 
the  trees  and  shrubs  by  which  they  once  climbed  been  cut 
down?  or  perchance  do  the  young  and  flexible  shoots  blow  up 


MULTUM    IN    PARVO 

in  high  winds,  and  fix  themselves?  Any  anomaly  in  vegetation 
makes  Nature  seem  more  real  and  present  in  her  working, — 
as  the  various  yellow  and  red  excrescences  on  young  oaks.  I 
am  affected  as  if  it  were  a  different  nature  that  produced 
them ;  as  if  a  poet  were  there  who  had  designs  in  his  head.  It 
is  remarkable  that  animals  are  often  obviously,  manifestly,  re 
lated  to  plants  which  they  feed  upon  or  live  among;  as  cater 
pillars,  butterflies,  tree-toads,  partridges,  chewinks;  I  noticed 
a  yellow  spider  on  a  golden-rod.  As  if  every  condition  might 
have  its  expression  in  some  form  of  animated  being. 

"The  interregnum  in  the  blossoming  of  flowers  being  well 
over,  many  small  flowers  blossom  now  in  the  low  grounds, 
having  just  reached  their  summer.  It  is  now  dry  enough,  and 
they  feel  the  heat  their  tenderness  required.  Golden-rods,  and 
asters  and  JohnVwort,  though  they  have  made  demonstra 
tions,  have  not  yet  commenced  to  reign.  Tansy  is  already  [Au 
gust  &4]  getting  stale;  it  is  perhaps  the  first  conspicuous  yellow 
flower  that  passes  off  the  stage.  Elderberries  are  ripe.  What  a 
miserable  name  has  the  Gratiola  aurea, — hedge-hyssop !  whose 
hedge  does  it  grow  by,  pray,  in  this  part  of  the  world? 

"We  love  to  see  Nature  fruitful  in  whatever  kind.  I  like  to 
see  the  acorns  plenty  on  the  shrub-oaks;  aye,  and  the  night 
shade  berries.  It  assures  us  of  her  vigor,  and  that  she  may 
equally  bring  forth  the  fruits  we  prize.  I  love  to  see  the  po 
tato  balls  numerous  and  large,  as  I  go  through  a  plough-field, 
— the  plant  thus  bearing  fruit  at  both  ends;  saying,  ever  and 
anon,  'Not  only  these  tubers  I  offer  you  for  the  present;  but 
if  you  will  have  new  varieties  (if  these  do  not  satisfy  you), 

[215] 


THOREAU 

plant  these  seeds.1  Fruit  of  the  strong  soils  containing  potash, 
the  vintage  is  come,  the  olive  is  ripe.  Why  not,  for  my  coat 
of  arms,  'for  device  a  cluster  of  potato-balls  in  a  potato  field'? 
Do  they  not  concern  New  Englanders  a  thousand  times  more 
than  all  her  grapes  ?  How  they  take  to  the  virgin  soil !  Rubus 
sempervirens,  the  small,  low  blackberry,  is  now  in  fruit;  Me- 
deola  Virginiea,  the  cucumber  root,  is  now  in  green  fruit.  The 
Potygala  cruciata,  cross-leaved  polygala,  with  its  handsome 
calyx  and  leaves,  has  a  very  sweet,  but,  as  it  were,  intermittent 
fragrance,  as  of  checkerberry  and  Mayflower  combined."" 

On  such  Latin  thorns  do  botanists  hang  the  Lilies  of  the 
Vale, — things  that  can  only  be  crucified  into  order  upon  the 
justification  of  a  splitting-hair  microscope.  We  are  assured 
they  have  no  nerves,  sharing  the  comfort  with  naturalists. 

"The  ivy-leaves  are  turning  red;  fall  dandelions  stand  thick 
in  the  meadows.  The  leaves  on  the  hardback  are  somewhat 
appressed,  clothing  the  stem  and  showing  their  downy  under 
sides,  like  white  waving  wands.  I  walk  often  in  drizzly  weather, 
for  then  the  small  weeds  (especially  if  they  stand  on  bare 
ground),  covered  with  raindrops  like  beads,  look  more  beauti 
ful  than  ever.  They  are  equally  beautiful  when  covered  with 
dew,  fresh  and  adorned,  almost  spirited  away  in  a  robe  of 
dewdrops.  At  the  Grape  Cliffs  the  few  bright  red  leaves  of  the 
tupelo  contrast  with  the  polished  green  ones, — the  tupelos 
with  drooping  branches.  The  grape-vines,  over-running  and 
bending  down  the  maples,  form  little  arching  bowers  over  the 
meadow  five  or  six  feet  in  diameter,  like  parasols  held  over 
the  ladies  of  the  harem  in  the  East.  The  rhomboidal  joints  of 

[216] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

the  tick  trefoil  (Desmodium  paniculatum)  adhere  to  my  clothes, 
and  thus  disperse  themselves.  The  oak-ball  is  a  dirty  drab 
now.  When  I  got  into  the  Lincoln  road,  I  perceived  a  singu 
lar  sweet  scent  in  the  air,  which  I  suspected  arose  from  some 
plant  now  in  a  peculiar  state  owing  to  the  season  [September 
11];  but  though  I  smelled  everything  around  I  could  not 
detect  it,  but  the  more  eagerly  I  smelled  the  further  I  seemed 
to  be  from  finding  it;  but  when  I  gave  up  the  search,  again 
it  would  be  wafted  to  me,  the  intermitting  perfume!  It  was 
one  of  the  sweet  scents  which  go  to  make  the  autumn  air, — 
which  fed  my  sense  of  smell  rarely,  and  dilated  my  nostrils. 
I  felt  the  better  for  it.  Methinks  that  I  possess  the  sense 
of  smell  in  greater  perfection  than  usual,  and  have  the  habit 
of  smelling  of  every  plant  I  pluck.  How  autumnal  now  is 
the  scent  of  ripe  grapes  by  the  road-side!  The  cross-leaved 
polygala  emits  its  fragrance  as  if  at  will.  You  must  not  hold 
it  too  near,  but  on  all  sides  and  at  all  distances.  How  beauti 
ful  the  sprout-land,  a  young  wood  thus  springing  up!  Shall 
man  then  despair?  Is  he  not  a  sprout-land  too? 

"  In  Cohosh  Swamp  the  leaves  have  turned  a  very  deep  red, 
but  have  not  lost  their  fragrance.  I  notice  wild  apples  grow 
ing  luxuriantly  in  the  midst  of  the  swamp,  rising  red  over 
the  colored,  painted  leaves  of  the  sumac,  reminding  me  that 
they  were  colored  by  the  same  influences, — some  green,  some 
yellow,  some  red.  I  fell  in  with  a  man  whose  breath  smelled 
of  spirit,  which  he  had  drunk.  How  could  I  but  feel  it  was 
his  OWN  spirit  that  I  smelt?  A  sparrow-hawk,  hardly  so  big 
as  a  night-hawk,  flew  over  high  above  my  head, — a  pretty 

[217] 


THOREAU 

little,  graceful  fellow,  too  small  and  delicate  to  be  rapacious. 
I  found  a  grove  of  young  sugar-maples.  How  silently  and  yet 
startlingly  the  existence  of  these  was  revealed  to  me,  which  I 
had  not  thought  grew  in  my  immediate  neighborhood,  when 
first  I  perceived  the  entire  edges  of  its  leaves  and  their  ob 
tuse  sinuses!  Such  near  hills  as  Nobscot  and  Nashoba  have 
lost  all  their  azure  in  this  clear  air,  and  plainly  belong  to 
earth.  Give  me  clearness,  nevertheless,  though  my  heavens  be 
moved  further  off  to  pay  for  it.  It  is  so  cold  I  am  glad  to  sit 
behind  the  wall;  still,  the  great  bidens  blooms  by  the  cause 
way  side,  beyond  the  bridge.  On  Mount  Misery  were  some 
very  rich  yellow  leaves  (clear  yellow)  of  the  Populus  grandi- 
dentata,  which  still  love  to  wag  and  tremble  in  my  hands." 

This  qualification  hides  the  plant  celebrated  by  the  en 
tombed  novelist,  Walter  Scott,  when  he  speaks  of — 

"the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made." 

It  is  a  poplar  whose  leaves  are  soft  and  tremulous,  and  some 
botanist  has  smashed  his  Latinity  on  the  little,  trembling, 
desponding  thing.  To  Henry  these  names  were  a  treat,  and 
possessed  a  flavor  beyond  the  title  of  emperor. 

The  river  never  failed  to  act  as  a  Pacific  for  his  afternoon, 
and  few  things  gave  him  so  great  a  delight  as  a  three  hours1 
voyage  on  this  mitigated  form  of  Amazon. 

" Seek  then,  again,  the  tranquil  river's  breast. 
July  awakes  new  splendor  in  the  stream, 
Yet  more  than  all,  the  water-lily's  pomp, 
A  star  of  creamy  perfume,  born  to  be 
[218] 

I'  C  if  \  •  •    H"  ' 

-"" 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

Consoler  to  thy  solitary  voyage ; 

In  vast  profusion  from  the  floor  of  pads, 

They  floating  swim,,  with  their  soft  beauty  decked. 

Nor  slight  the  pickerel-weed,  whose  violet  shaft 

Controls  the  tall  reed's  emerald,  and  endows 

With  a  contrasted  coloring  the  shore. 

No  work  of  human  art  can  faintly  show 

The  unnoticed  lustre  of  these  summer  plants, 

These  floating  palaces,  these  anchored  orbs, 

These  spikes  of  untold  richness  crowning  earth. 

The  muskrat  glides,  and  perch  and  pout  display 
Their  arrowy  swiftness,  while  the  minnows  dart 
And  fright  the  filmy  silver  of  the  pool ; 
And  the  high-colored  bream,  a  ring  of  gems, 
Their  circular  nests  scoop  in  the  yellow  sands. 
Yet  never  ask,  Why  was  this  beauty  wasted 
On  these  banks?  nor  soon  believe  that  love  in  vain 
Is  lavished  on  the  solitude,  nor  deem 
Absence  of  human  life  absence  of  all ! 
Why  is  not  here  an  answer  to  thy  thought? 

Or  mark  in  August,  when  the  twilight  falls, 
Like  wreaths  of  timid  smoke  her  curling  mist 
Poured  as  from  some  yet  smouldering  fire  across 
The  meadows  cool ;  whose  modest  shadows,  thrown 
So  faintly,  seem  to  fall  asleep  with  day. 
Oh,  softly  pours  the  thin  and  curling  mist ! 
Thou  twilight  hour !  abode  of  peace  how  deep, 
May  we  not  envy  him  who  in  thee  dwells? 
And,  like  thy  soft  and  gently  falling  beauty, 
His  dreams  repose  on  flood-tide  of  the  soul." 

CHANNING'S  NEAR  HOME. 

[219] 


THOREAU 

Or  let  us  hear  this  dear  lover  of  wood  and  glen,  of  early 
morn  and  deep  midnight,  sing  a  strain  of  the  autumnal  wind 
as  it  goes  hurrying  about,  regardless  of  the  plucked  manni- 
kins  freezing  amid  its  polarities: — 

"The  wind  roars  amid  the  pines  like  the  surf.  You  can 
hardly  hear  the  crickets  for  the  din,  or  the  cars.  Such  a  blow 
ing,  stirring,  bustling  day!  what  does  it  mean?  All  light 
things  decamp,  straws  and  loose  leaves  change  their  places. 
It  shows  the  white  and  silvery  under-sides  of  the  leaves.  I 
perceive  that  some  farmers  are  busy  cutting  turf  now.  You 
dry  and  burn  the  very  earth  itself.  I  see  the  volumes  of 
smoke, — not  quite  the  blaze, — from  burning  brush,  as  I 
suppose,  far  in  the  western  horizon:  the  farmers'  simple  en 
terprises!  They  improve  this  season, — which  is  the  dryest,— 
their  haying  being  done  and  their  harvest  not  begun,  to  do 
these  jobs:  burn  brush,  build  walls,  dig  ditches,  cut  turf;  also 
topping  corn  and  digging  potatoes.  May  not  the  succory, 
tree-primrose,  and  other  plants,  be  distributed  from  Boston 
on  the  rays  of  the  railroad?  The  shorn  meadows  looked  of  a 
living  green  at  eve,  even  greener  than  in  spring.  This  re 
minded  me  of  thefenum  cordum,  the  after-math;  sicUimenta 
de  pratis,  the  second  mowing  of  the  meadow,  in  Cato.  His 
remedy  for  sprains  would  be  as  good  in  some  cases  as  opo 
deldoc.  You  must  repeat  these  words:  'Hauat,  hauat,  hauat 
ista  pista  sista  damia  bodanna  ustra.'  And  his  notion  of  an 
auction  would  have  had  a  fitness  in  the  South:  'If  you  wish 
to  have  an  auction,  sell  off  your  oil,  if  it  will  fetch  something, 
and  anything  in  the  wine  and  corn  line  left  over;  sell  your 

[  220  ] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

old  oxen,  worthless  sheep  and  cattle,  old  wool,  hides  and 
carts;  old  tools,  old  slaves  and  sick  slaves;  and  if  you  can 
scrape  up  any  more  trash,  sell  it  along  with  them.'  I  now  be 
gin  to  pick  wild  apples. 

"We  scared  a  calf  out  of  the  meadows,  which  ran,  like  a 
ship  tossed  on  the  waves,  over  the  hills :  they  run  awkwardly, 
— red,  oblong  squares,  tossing  up  and  down  like  a  vessel  in  a 
storm,  with  great  commotion.  I  observe  that  the  woodchuck 
has  two  or  more  holes,  a  rod  or  two  apart:  one,  or  the  front 
door,  where  the  excavated  sand  is  heaped  up;  another,  not 
so  easily  discovered,  which  is  very  small,  round,  and  without 
sand  about  it,  being  that  by  which  he  emerged,  and  smaller 
directly  at  the  surface  than  beneath,  on  the  principle  by 
which  a  well  is  dug.  I  saw  a  very  fat  woodchuck  on  a  wall, 
evidently  prepared  to  go  into  the  ground." 

'"Want  and  woe  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous.'" 

As  the  woodchuck  dines  chiefly  on  crickets,  he  will  not  be 
at  much  expense  in  seats  for  his  winter  quarters.  Since  the 
anatomical  discovery,  that  the  thyroid  gland,  whose  use  in 
man  is  nihil,  is  for  the  purpose  of  getting  digested  during 
the  hibernating  jollifications  of  the  woodchuck,  we  sympa 
thize  less  at  his  retreat.  Darwin,  who  hibernates  in  science, 
cannot  yet  have  heard  of  this  use  of  the  above  gland,  or  he 
would  have  derived  the  human  race  to  that  amount  from 
the  Mus  montana,  our  woodchuck,  instead  of  landing  him  flat 
on  the  simiadce,  or  monkeys.  We  never  can  remember  that 

[  221  ] 


THOREAU 

our  botanist  took  a  walk  that  gave  him  a  poor  turn  or  disa 
greed  with  him.  It  is  native  to  him  to  say, — 

"It  was  pleasant  walking  where  the  road  was  shaded  by  a 
high  hill,  as  it  can  be  only  in  the  morning;  also,  looking 
back,  to  see  a  heavy  shadow  made  by  some  high  birches  reach 
ing  quite  across  the  road.  Light  and  shadow  are  sufficient 
contrast  and  furnish  sufficient  excitement  when  we  are  well. 
Now  we  were  passing  a  sunshiny  mead,  pastured  with  cattle 
and  sparkling  with  dew, — the  sound  of  crows  and  swallows 
was  heard  in  the  air,  and  leafy-columned  elms  stood  about, 
shining  with  moisture.  The  morning  freshness  and  unworldli- 
ness  of  that  domain!  When  you  are  starting  away,  leaving 
your  more  familiar  fields  for  a  little  adventure  like  a  walk,  you 
look  at  every  object  with  a  traveller's,  or  at  least  historical, 
eyes;  you  pause  on  the  foot-bridge  where  an  ordinary  walk 
hardly  commences,  and  begin  to  observe  and  moralize.  It  is 
worth  the  while  to  see  your  native  village  thus,  sometimes. 
The  dry  grass  yields  a  crisped  sound  to  my  feet;  the  corn 
stalks,  standing  in  stacks  in  long  rows  along  the  edges  of  the 
corn-fields,  remind  me  of  stacks  of  muskets.  As  soon  as  berries 
are  gone,  grapes  come.  The  flowers  of  the  meadow-beauty  are 
literally  little  reddish  chalices  now,  though  many  still  have 
petals, — little  cream -pitchers.  There  was  a  man  in  a  boat,  in 
the  sun,  just  disappearing  in  the  distance  around  a  bend,  lift 
ing  high  his  arms,  and  dipping  his  paddles,  as  if  he  were  a 
vision  bound  to  the  land  of  the  blessed,  far  off  as  in  a  picture. 
When  I  see  Concord  to  purpose,  I  see  it  as  if  it  were  not  real, 
but  painted;  and  what  wonder  if  I  do  not  speak  to  thee?" 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

There  was  nothing  our  poet  loved  or  sang  better,  albeit  in 
prose, 'than  the  early  morning:  — 

" Alone,  despondent?  then  art  thou  alone, 
On  some  near  hill-top,  ere  of  day  the  orb 
In  early  summer  tints  the  floating  heaven, 
While  sunk  around  thy  sleeping  race  o'ershade 
With  more  oblivion  their  dim  village-roofs. 

Alone?  Oh,  listen  hushed! 
What  living  hymn  awakes  such  studious  air, 
A  myriad  sounds  that  in  one  song  converge, 
Just  as  the  added  light  lifts  the  far  hamlet 
Or  distant  wood?  These  are  the  carols  sweet 
Of  the  unnumbered  birds  that  drench  the  sphere 
With  their  prodigious  harmony,  prolonged 
And  ceaseless,  so  that  at  no  time  it  dies,  — 
Vanquishing  the  expectation  with  delay. 
Still  crowding  notes  from  the  wild  robin's  larum 
In  the  walnut's  bough,  to  the  veery's  flute, 
Who,  from  the  inmost  shades  of  the  wet  wood, 
His  liquid  lay  rallies  in  martial  trills. 
And  mark  the  molten  flecks  fast  on  those  skies ; 
They  move  not,  musing  on  their  rosy  heights 
In  pure,  celestial  radiance. 

Nor  these  forms, 

That  chiefly  must  engross  and  ask  thy  praise. 
It  is  a  startling  theme,  this  lovely  birth, 
Each  morn,  of  a  new  day,  so  wholly  new, 
So  absolutely  penetrated  by  itself, — 
This  fresh,  this  sweet,  this  ever-living  grace, 
This  tender  joy  that  still  unstinted  clothes 


THOREAU 

An  orb  of  beauty,,  of  all  bliss  the  abode. 

Cast  off  the  night,  unhinge  the  dream-clasped  brow,    • 

Step  freely  forth,  exulting  in  thy  joy ; 

Launch  off,  and  sip  the  dewy  twilight  time ; 

Come  ere  the  last  great  stars  have  fled,  ere  dawn 

Like  a  spirit  seen,  unveils  the  charm 

Of  bosky  wood,  deep  dell,  or  odorous  plain ; 

Ere,  blazed  with  more  than  gold,  some  slow-drawn  mist 

Retreats  its  distant  arm  from  the  cool  meads." 

As  in  the  song,  such  a  "getting  up  we  never  did  see," — our 
author  sallying  forth  like  Don  Quixote,  ere  the  stingiest 
farmer  commenced  milking  his  cow-yard  cistern.  All  that  he 
did  was  done  with  order  due:  the  late  walk  came  out  at  two 
in  the  morning,  and  the  early  one  came  on  at  the  same  crisis. 

"His  drink  the  running  stream,  his  cup  the  bare 
Of  his  palm  closed,  his  bed  the  hard,  cold  ground." 

Cleanness,  punctuality,  the  observation  of  the  law  he  truly 
followed.  "Treat  with  the  reverence  due  to  age  the  elders  of 
your  own  family,  so  that  the  elders  in  the  families  of  others 
shall  be  similarly  treated;  treat  with  the  kindness  due  to 
youth  the  young  in  your  own  family,  so  that  the  young  in 
the  families  of  others  shall  be  similarly  treated :  do  this,  and 
the  empire  may  be  made  to  go  round  in  your  palm."  He 
might  have  said,  with  Victor  Hugo,  "The  finest  of  all  altars 
is  the  soul  of  an  unhappy  man  who  is  consoled,  and  thanks 
God.  Nisi  Dominus  custodierit  domum,  in  vanum  vigilant  qui 
custodiant  earn  (Unless  God  watches  over  our  abode,  they 
watch  in  vain  who  are  set  to  keep  it).  Let  us  never  fear  rob- 

[  224,  ] 


MULTUM     IN     PARVO 

bers  or  murderers.  They  are  external  and  small  dangers:  let 
us  fear  ourselves;  prejudices  are  the  true  thefts,  vices  the 
fatal  murders."  His  notions  about  the  privileges  of  real  prop 
erty  remind  us  of  the  park  of  King  Van,  which  contained 
seventy  square  le;  but  the  grass-cutters  and  the  fuel -gatherers 
had  the  privilege  of  entrance.  He  shared  it  with  the  people ; 
and  was  it  not  with  reason  they  looked  on  it  as  small  ?  Of  every 
ten  things  he  knew,  he  had  learned  nine  in  conversation ;  and 
he  remembered  that  between  friends  frequent  reproofs  lead  to 
distance,  and  that  in  serving  the  neighbor  frequent  remon 
strances  lead  to  disgrace.  Nor  did  he  follow  that  old  rule  of 
the  nuns, — Believe  Secular  men  little,  Religious  still  less.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  of  education  who,  without  a  certain 
livelihood,  are  able  to  maintain  a  fixed  pursuit. 

"Thou  art  not  gone,  being  gone,  where'er  thou  art: 
Thou  leav'st  in  us  thy  watchful  eyes,  in  us  thy  loving  heart." 


[225  ] 


HIS     WRITINGS 


"The  dark-colored  ivy  and  the  untrodden  grove  of  God,  with  its  myriad 
fruits,  sunless  and  without  wind  in  all  storms ;  where  always  the  frenzied 
Dionysus  dwells." 

SOPHOCLES. 

"When,  like  the  stars,  the  singing  angels  shot 
To  earth." 

GILES  FLETCHER. 

"Patience !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace, 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods !  The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  Sufferer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 

DECKER. 

"Friendship  has  passed  me  like  a  ship  at  sea." 

FESTUS. 


CHAPTER     XII 

HIS     WRITINGS 

ONE  of  the  objects  of  our  poet-naturalist  was  to  acquire 
the  art  of  writing  a  good  English  style.  So  Goethe,  that  slow 
and  artful  formalist,  spent  himself  in  acquiring  a  good  Ger 
man  style.  And  what  Thoreau  thought  of  this  matter  of  writ 
ing  may  be  learned  from  many  passages  in  this  sketch,  and 
from  this  among  the  rest:  "It  is  the  fault  of  some  excellent 
writers,  and  De  Quincey^s  first  impressions  on  seeing  London 
suggest  it  to  me,  that  they  express  themselves  with  too  great 
fulness  and  detail.  They  give  the  most  faithful,  natural,  and 
lifelike  account  of  their  sensations,  mental  and  physical,  but 
they  lack  moderation  and  sententiousness.  They  do  not  affect 
us  as  an  ineffectual  earnest,  and  a  reserve  of  meaning,  like  a 
stutterer:  they  say  all  they  mean.  Their  sentences  are  not  con 
centrated  and  nutty, — sentences  which  suggest  far  more  than 
they  say,  which  have  an  atmosphere  about  them,  which  do  not 
report  an  old,  but  make  a  new  impression;  sentences  which 
suggest  on  many  things,  and  are  as  durable  as  a  Roman  aque 
duct:  to  frame  these, — that  is  the  art  of  writing.  Sentences 
which  are  expressive,  towards  which  so  many  volumes,  so 
much  life,  went;  which  lie  like  boulders  on  the  page  up  and 
down,  or  across;  which  contain  the  seed  of  other  sentences, 
not  mere  repetition,  but  creation;  and  which  a  man  might 
sell  his  ground  or  cattle  to  build.  De  Quincey's  style  is  no 
where  kinked  or  knotted  up  into  something  hard  and  signifi- 

[  229  ] 


THOREAU 

cant,  which  you  could  swallow  like  a  diamond,  without  di 
gesting." 

As  in  the  story,  "And  that 's  Peg  Woffington's  notion  of  an 
actress!  Better  it,  Gibber  and  Bracegirdle,  if  you  can!"  This 
moderation  does5</or  the  most  part,  characterize  his  works,  both 
of  prose  and  verse.  They  have  their  stoical  merits,  their  un- 
comfortableness !  It  is  one  result  to  be  lean  and  sacrificial; 
yet  a  balance  of  comfort  and  a  house  of  freestone  on  the  sunny 
side  of  Beacon  Street  can  be  endured,  in  a  manner,  by  weak 
nerves.  But  the  fact  that  our  author  lived  for  a  while  alone 
in  a  shanty  near  a  pond  or  stagnum,  and  named  one  of  his 
books  after  the  place  where  it  stood,  has  led  some  to  say  he 
was  a  barbarian  or  a  misanthrope.  It  was  a  writing-case:  — 

"This,  as  an  amber  drop  enwraps  a  bee. 
Covering  discovers  your  quick  soul,  that  we 
May  in  your  through-shine  front  your  heart's  thoughts  see." 

DONNE. 

Here,  in  this  wooden  inkstand,  he  wrote  a  good  part1  of 
his  famous  "Walden";  and  this  solitary  woodland  pool  was 
more  to  his  muse  than  all  oceans  of  the  planet,  by  the  force 
of  that  faculty  on  which  he  was  never  weary  of  descanting, 
— Imagination.  Without  this,  he  says,  human  life,  dressed  in 
its  Jewish  or  other  gaberdine,  would  be  a  kind  of  lunatic's 
hospital, — insane  with  the  prose  of  it,  mad  with  the  drouth 
of  society's  remainder-biscuits;  but  add  the  phantasy,  that 
glorious,  that  divine  gift,  and  then — 

1  The  book  was  written  from  his  journals  — not  specially  at  Walden;  but 
he  did  write  or  edit  the  "Week"  there,  w.  E.  c. 

[  230  ] 


HIS     WRITINGS 

"The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all 
The  joys  and  horrors  of  their  peace  and  wars ; 
And  now  will  view  the  gods'  state  and  the  stars." 

CHAPMAN. 

Out  of  this  faculty  was  his  written  experience  chiefly  con 
structed, — upon  this  he  lived;  not  upon  the  cracked  wheats 
and  bread-fruits  of  an  outward  platter.  His  essays,  those 
masterful  creations,  taking  up  the  commonest  topics;  a  sour 
apple,  an  autumn  leaf,  are  features  of  this  wondrous  imagina 
tion  of  his;  and,  as  it  was  his  very  life-blood,  he,  least  of  all, 
sets  it  forth  in  labored  description.  He  did  not  bring  forward 
his  means,  or  unlock  the  closet  of  his  MaelzePs  automaton 
chess-player.  The  reader  cares  not  that  the  writer  of  a  novel, 
with  two  lovers  in  hand,  should  walk  out  in  the  fooPs-cap, 
and  begin  balancing  some  peacock^  feather  on  his  nose. 

" Begin,  murderer, — leave  thy  damnable  faces,  and  begin!" 

He  loved  antithesis  in  verse.  It  could  pass  for  paradox, — 
something  subtractive  and  unsatisfactory,  as  the  four  her 
rings  provided  by  Caleb  Balderstone  for  Ravenswood's  dinner : 
come,  he  says,  let  us  see  how  miserably  uncomfortable  we  can 
feel.  Hawthorne,  too,  enjoyed  a  grave,  and  a  pocket  full  of 
miseries  to  nibble  upon. 

There  was  a  lurking  humor  in  almost  all  that  he  said, — 
a  dry  wit,  often  expressed.  He  used  to  laugh  heartily  and 
many  times  in  all  the  interviews  I  had,  when  anything  in 
that  direction  was  needed.  Certainly  he  has  left  some  exqui 
sitely  humorous  pieces,  showing  his  nice  discernment;  and  he 


THOREAU 

has  narrated  an  encounter  truly  curious  and  wonderful,— 
the  story  of  a  snapping-turtle  swallowing  a  horn-pout.  In  the 
latest  pieces  on  which  he  worked  he  showed  an  anxiety  to 
correct  them  by  leaving  out  the  few  innuendoes,  sallies,  or 
puns,  that  formerly  luxuriated  amid  the  serious  pages.  No 
one  more  quickly  entertained  the  apprehension  of  a  jest; 
and  his  replies  often  came  with  a  startling  promptness,  as 
well  as  perfection, — as  if  premeditated.  This  offhand  talent 
lay  in  his  habit  of  deep  thought  and  mature  reflection;  in 
the  great  treasury  of  his  wit  he  had  weapons  ready  furnished 
for  nearly  all  occasions. 

Of  his  own  works,  the  "Week*"  was  at  his  death  for  the 
most  part  still  in  the  sheets,  unbound;  a  small  edition  of 
"Walden"  was  sold  in  some  seven  years  after  its  publishing. 
His  dealings  with  publishers  (who  dealt  with  him  in  the 
most  mean  and  niggardly  style)  affected  him  with  a  shyness 
of  that  class.  It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  he  was  paid 
for  what  he  wrote  by  the  persons  who  bought  his  wares;  for 
one  of  his  printed  articles  the  note  of  the  publishers  was  put 
by  him  in  the  bank  for  collection.  Of  the  non-sale  of  the 
"Week"  he  said,  "I  believe  that  this  result  is  more  inspiring 
and  better  for  me  than  if  a  thousand  had  bought  my  wares. 
It  affects  my  privacy  less,  and  leaves  me  freer."  Some  culti 
vated  minds  place  "Wai den"  in  the  front  rank;  but  both  his 
books  are  so  good  they  will  stand  on  their  own  merits.  His 
latest-written  work  (the  "Excursions'" — a  collection  of  lec 
tures,  mainly)  is  a  great  favorite  with  his  friends.  His  works 
are  household  words  to  those  who  have  long  known  them; 


HIS     WRITINGS 

and  the  larger  circle  he  is  sure,  with  time,  to  address  will 
follow  in  our  footsteps.  Such  a  treasure  as  the  "Week," — so 
filled  with  images  from  nature, — such  a  faithful  record  of 
the  scenery  and  the  people  on  the  banks, — could  not  fail  to 
make  a  deep  impression.  Its  literary  merit  is  also  great;  as  a 
treasury  of  citations  from  other  authors,  it  gives  a  favorable 
view  of  his  widely  extended  reading.  Few  books  in  this  respect 
can  be  found  to  surpass  it. 

In  his  discourse  of  Friendship,  Thoreau  starts  with  the 
idea  of  "underpropping  his  love  by  such  pure  hate,  that  it 
would  end  in  sympathy,"  like  sweet  butter  from  sour  cream. 
And  in  this: — 

"Two  solitary  stars, — 
Unmeasured  systems  far 
Between  us  roll ; " 

getting  off  into  the  agonies  of  space,  where  everything  freezes, 
yet  he  adds  as  inducement, — 

"But  by  our  conscious  light  we  are 
Determined  to  one  pole." 

In  other  words,  there  was  a  pole  apiece.  He  continues  the 
antithesis,  and  says  there  is  "no  more  use  in  friendship  than 
in  the  tints  of  flowers"  (the  chief  use  in  them);  "pathless  the 
gulf  of  feeling  yawns,"  and  the  reader  yawns,  too,  at  the  idea 
of  tumbling  into  it.  And  so  he  packs  up  in  his  mind  "all 
the  clothes  which  outward  nature  wears,"  like  a  young  lady's 
trunk  going  to  Mount  Desert. 

We  must  not  expect  literature,  in  such  case,  to  run  its 
[  233  ] 


THOREAU 

hands  round  the  dial-plate  of  style  with  cuckoo  repetition: 
the  snarls  he  criticises  De  Quincey  for  not  getting  into  are 
the  places  where  his  bundles  of  sweetmeats  untie.  As  in  the 
Vendidad,  "Hail  to  thee,  O  man!  who  art  come  from  the 
transitory  place  to  the  imperishable": — 

"In  Nature's  nothing,  be  not  nature's  toy." 

This  feature  in  his  style  is  by  no  means  so  much  bestowed 
upon  his  prose  as  his  poetry.  In  his  verse  he  more  than  once 
attained  to  beauty,  more  often  to  quaintness.  He  did  not 
court  admiration,  though  he  admired  fame;  and  he  might 
have  said  to  his  reader, — 

"Whoe'er  thou  beest  who  read'st  this  sullen  writ, 
Which  just  so  much  courts  thee  as  thou  dost  it.",— 

He  had  an  excellent  turn  of  illustration.  Speaking  of  the 
debris  of  Carnac,  he  says: — 

" Erect  ourselves,  and  let  those  columns  lie; 
If  Carnac's  columns  still  stand  on  the  plain, 
To  enjoy  our  opportunities  they  remain." 

The  little  Yankee  squatting  on  Walden  Pond  was  not  de 
ceived  by  an  Egyptian  stone  post,  or  sand  heap.  In  another 
verse: — 

"When  life  contracts  into  a  vulgar  span, 
And  human  nature  tires  to  be  a  man,  — 
Greece!  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee?" 

And  he  let  Greece  slide.  At  times  he  hangs  up  old  authors, 
in  the  blaze  of  a  New  England  noon. 


HIS     WRITINGS 

ee  Plutarch  was  good,  and  so  was  Homer  too, 
Our  Shakespeare's  life  was  rich  to  live  again ; 
What  Plutarch  read,  that  was  not  good  nor  true, 
Nor  Shakespeare's  books,  unless  his  books  were  men." 

"Tell  Shakespeare  to  attend  some  leisure  hour, 
For  now  I  've  business  with  this  drop  of  dew." 

He  could  drop  Shakespeare;  and  it  were  well  if  both  he 
and  Dante  were  prescribed,  rather  than  poured  out  of  bath 
tubs.  Every  one  must,  however,  admire  the  essay  of  Mr.  Brown 
on  the  Bard  of  Avon,  and  the  translation  of  Dante  by  Mr. 
Black :  neatness  is  the  elegance  of  poverty. 

The  following  verses  are  pretty,  the  last  line  from  Milton's 
"Penseroso,"  with  the  change  of  a  syllable.  He  did  not  fear  to 
collect  a  good  line  any  more  than  a  good  flower: — 

RUMORS    FROM    AN    JEOLIAN    HARP 

"There  is  a  vale  which  none  hath  seen, 
Where  foot  of  man  has  never  been, 
Such  as  here  lives  with  toil  and  strife, 
An  anxious  and  a  sinful  life. 

There  every  virtue  has  its  birth, 
Ere  it  descends  upon  the  earth, 
And  thither  every  deed  returns, 
,    Which  in  the  generous  bosom  burns. 

There  love  is  warm,  and  youth  is  young, 
And  poetry  is  yet  unsung ; 
For  Virtue  still  adventures  there, 
And  freely  breathes  her  native  air. 
[  235  ] 


THOREAU 

And  ever,  if  you  hearken  well, 
You  still  may  hear  its  vesper  bell, 
And  tread  of  high-souled  men  go  by, 
Their  thoughts  conversing  with  the  sky." 

He  has  no  killing  single  shots, — his  thoughts  flowed. 

"Be  not  the  fowler's  net, 

Which  stays  my  flight, 
And  craftily  is  set 
T  allure  my  sight. 

But  be  the  favoring  gale 

That  bears  me  on, 
And  still  doth  fill  my  sail 

When  thou  art  gone." 

"Some  tender  buds  were  left  upon  my  stem 
In  mimicry  of  life. 

Some  tumultuous  little  rill, 

Purling  round  its  storied  pebble. 

Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house. 

Experienced  river ! 

Hast  thou  flowed  for  ever?" 

As  an  instance  of  his  humor  in  verse: — 

"I  make  ye  an  offer, 
Ye  gods,  hear  the  scoffer ! 
The  scheme  will  not  hurt  you, 
If  ye  will  find  goodness,  I  will  find  virtue. 
I  have  pride  still  unbended, 
[  236  ] 


HIS     WRITINGS 

And  blood  undescended ; 
I  cannot  toil  blindly, 
Though  ye  behave  kindly, 
And  I  swear  by  the  rood 
I  '11  be  slave  to  no  god." 

He  early  gave  us  his  creed: — 

"Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each  day, 

But  mine  are  far  between ; 

Content,  I  cry,  for  sooth  to  say, 

Mine  brightest  are,  I  ween. 

For  when  my  sun  doth  deign  to  rise, 

Though  it  be  her  noontide, 
Her  fairest  field  in  shadow  lies, 

Nor  can  my  light  abide. 

Through  his  discourse  I  climb  and  see, 

As  from  some  eastern  hill, 
A  brighter  morrow  rise  to  me 

Than  lieth  in  her  skill. 

As  't  were  two  summer  days  in  one, 

Two  Sundays  come  together, 
Our  rays  united  make  one  sun, 

With  fairest  summer  weather." 

July  25,  1839. 

This  date  is  for  those  who,  unlike  Alfieri,  are  by  nature 
not  almost  destitute  of  curiosity;  and  the  subject,  Friendship, 
is  for  the  like:  — 

"  For  things  that  pass  are  past,  and  in  this  field 

The  indeficient  spring  no  winter  flaws." 

FLETCHER. 

[  237  ] 


THOREAU 

What  subtlety  and  what  greatness  in  those  quatrains !  then 
how  truly  original,  how  vague!  His  Pandora's  box  of  a  head 
carried  all  manner  of  sweets.  No  one  would  guess  the  theme, 
Yankee  though  he  be.  He  has  that  richness  which 

"  Looks  as  it  is  with  some  true  April  day, 
Whose  various  weather  strews  the  world  with  flowers." 

As  he  well  affirms  (if  it  be  applied  antithetically),  a  man 
cannot  wheedle  nor  overawe  his  genius.  Nothing  was  ever 
so  unfamiliar  and  startling  to  a  man  as  his  own  thoughts. 
To  the  rarest  genius  it  is  the  most  expensive  to  succumb  and 
conform  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  It  is  the  worst  of  lumber 
if  the  poet  wants  to  float  upon  the  breeze  of  popularity.  The 
bird  of  paradise  is  obliged  constantly  to  fly  against  the  wind. 
The  poet  is  no  tender  slip  of  fairy  stock,  but  the  toughest  son 
of  earth  and  of  heaven.  He  will  prevail  to  be  popular  in  spite 
of  his  faults,  and  in  spite  of  his  beauties  too.  He  makes  us 
free  of  his  hearth  and  heart,  which  is  greater  than  to  offer 
us  the  freedom  of  a  city.  Orpheus  does  not  hear  the  strains 
which  issue  from  his  lyre,  but  only  those  which  are  breathed 
into  it.  The  poet  will  write  for  his  peers  alone.  He  never 
whispers  in  a  private  ear.  The  true  poem  is  not  that  which 
the  public  read.  His  true  work  will  not  stand  in  any  prince's 
gallery. 

"  My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would  have  writ, 
But  I  could  not  both  live  and  utter  it." 

"I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 
And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before. 
[  238  ] 


HIS     WRITINGS 

I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore." 

He  has  this  bit  of  modesty: — 

THE     POET'S     DELAY 

"In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise, 

In  vain  observe  the  western  blaze, 
Who  idly  look  to  other  skies, 
Expecting  life  by  other  ways. 

Amidst  such  boundless  wealth  without, 

I  only  still  am  poor  within, 
The  birds  have  sung  their  summer  out, 

But  still  my  spring  does  not  begin. 

Shall  I  then  wait  the  autumn  wind, 

Compelled  to  seek  a  milder  day, 
And  leave  no  curious  nest  behind, 

No  woods  still  echoing  to  my  lay?" 

Again  he  asks,  "Shall  I  not  have  words  as  fresh  as  my 
thought?  Shall  I  use  any  other  man's  word?  A  genuine 
thought  or  feeling  would  find  expression  for  itself,  if  it  had 
to  invent  hieroglyphics.  I  perceive  that  Shakespeare  and  Mil 
ton  did  not  foresee  into  what  company  they  were  to  fall.  To 
say  that  God  has  given  a  man  many  and  great  talents,  fre 
quently  means  that  he  has  brought  his  heavens  down  within 
reach  of  his  hands."  He  sometimes  twanged  a  tune  of  true 
prose  on  the  strings  of  his  theorbo,  as  where,  instead  of  Cow- 
per's  church-going  bell,  he  flatly  says: — 

"Dong  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east," 

[  239  ] 


THOREAU 

which  will  pass  for  impudence  with  our  United  Brethren.  It 
is  difficult  to  comprehend  his  aloofness  from  these  affection 
ate  old  symbols,  drawling  out  from  the  sunshiny  past,  and 
without  which  our  New  England  paradise  is  but  a  "howling 
wilderness";  although  he  loves  the  echo  of  the  meeting-house 
brass.  It  is  his  species  of  paradoxical  quintessence.  He  draws 
a  village:  "it  has  a  meeting-house  and  horse-sheds,  a  tavern 
and  a  blacksmith's  shop  for  centre,  and  a  good  deal  of  wood 
to  cut  and  cord  yet." 

ft  A  man  that  looks  on  glass, 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye ; 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 
And  the  heavens  espy." 

Of  architecture  Thoreau  thought  that,  as  he  had  no  wines 
nor  olives  in  his  cellar,  why  need  build  arches  to  cover  what 
he  had  not?  Towards  humanity  in  the  lump,  I  think  no  one 
ever  felt  a  more  philanthropic  quiet;  he  looked  not  to  the 
Past,  or  the  men  of  the  Past,  as  having  so  special  a  value  for 
him  as  our  present  doings.  It  was  for  others  to  do  this, — to 
toddle  about  after  the  nomadic  ghosts  of  wit  and  sense,— 
and,  no  doubt,  they  pass  profitable  lives  (for  them);  but  it 
was  not  Thoreau  who  aided  or  abetted  them.  I  have  tried 
often,  in  conversing  with  him,  to  fathom  the  secret  of  these 
and  similar  opinions, — having  myself  the  due  respect  for  all 
formality  and  tradition, — but  he  loved  not  argument  in  dis 
course,  had  his  own  opinions  (wherever  they  came  from)  and 
his  company  could  accept  them  or  not, — he  had  not  time 
nor  inclination  to  spend  effort  in  dusting  them  or  shaking 

[  240  ] 


HIS    WRITINGS 

them  out,  like  carpets.  But  no  man  was  a  more  careful  and 
punctilious  citizen,  or  more  faithfully  respected  the  callings 
and  professions  of  his  fellow-men. 

This  taste  for  novelty  and  freedom,  and  distaste  for  forms 
and  fetters,  came  practically  to  the  surface  in  his  violent 
hatred  of  American  slavery.  Nothing  so  vile  in  all  history 
forced  itself  on  his  mind.  For  Garrison,  Phillips,  and  Parker 
Pillsbury  he  had  the  proper  admiration;  for  Captain  John 
Brown,  from  the  first  he  had  undivided  respect  and  esteem; 
nor  had  that  devoted  man  a  sincerer  mourner  at  his  death. 
We  took  our  usual  walk  after  the  affecting  funeral  ceremony 
in  Concord,  and  the  cool  twilight  cast  its  reproach  over  that 
fearful  slaughter;  as  on  later  events  that  followed  the  tragedy 
at  Charlestown,  fell  a  twilight  of  terror,  succeeded  by  a  res 
urrection  of  peaceful  and  serene  freedom.  Thoreau  ranks  in 
the  front  of  the  storming-party  against  the  old  Golgotha  of 
slavery.  He  never  faltered,  but  from  first  to  last  lived  and 
worked  a  faithful  friend  to  the  American  slave.  Not  one  slave 
only  has  he  housed  and  placed  "aboard  the  cars11  on  his  way 
to  Canada, — Concord  being  on  the  direct  route  to  that  free 
country. 

His  notions  of  institutions  were  like  his  views  of  sepulchres. 
Another  has  said,  "  It  is  my  business  to  rot  dead  leaves,"  sym 
bolizing  a  character  working  like  water.  "A  man  might  well 
pray  that  he  may  not  taboo  or  curse  any  portion  of  nature 
by  being  buried  in  it.  It  is,  therefore,  much  to  the  credit  of 
Little  John,  the  famous  follower  of  Robin  Hood,  that  his 
grave  was  'long  celebrous  for  the  yielding  of  excellent  whet- 

[241  ] 


THOREAU 

stones.1  Nothing  but  great  antiquity  can  make  grave-yards 
interesting  to  me.  I  have  no  friends  there.  The  farmer  who 
has  skimmed  his  farm  might  perchance  leave  his  body  to  Na 
ture  to  be  ploughed  in.  'And  the  king  seide,  What  is  the 
biriel  which  I  se  ?  And  the  citeseynes  of  that  cite  answeride 
to  him.  It  is  the  sepulchre  of  the  man  of  God  that  cam  fro 
Juda."' 

He  makes  us  a  photograph  of  style,  which  touches  some  of 
his  chief  strength.  "There  is  a  sort  of  homely  truth  and  natu 
ralness  in  some  books  which  is  very  rare  to  find,  and  yet  looks 
cheap  enough.  Homeliness  is  almost  as  great  a  merit  in  a 
book  as  in  a  house,  if  the  reader  would  abide  there.  It  is  next 
to  beauty,  and  a  very  high  art.  Some  have  this  merit  only. 
Very  few  men  can  speak  of  Nature,  for  instance,  with  any 
truth.  They  overstep  her  modesty,  somehow  or  other,  and 
confer  no  favor.  They  do  not  speak  a  good  word  for  her.  The 
surliness  with  which  the  wood-chopper  speaks  of  his  woods, 
handling  them  as  indifferently  as  his  axe,  is  better  than  the 
mealy-mouthed  enthusiasm  of  the  lover  of  nature."  So  Phi- 
lina  cried,  "Oh!  that  I  might  never  hear  more  of  nature  and 
scenes  of  nature !  When  the  day  is  bright  you  go  to  walk,  and 
to  dance  when  you  hear  a  tune  played.  But  who  would  think 
a  moment  on  the  music  or  the  weather?  It  is  the  dancer  that 
interests  us,  and  not  the  violin;  and  to  look  upon  a  pair  of 
bright  black  eyes  is  the  life  of  a  pair  of  blue  ones.  But  what 
on  earth  have  we  to  do  with  wells  and  brooks  and  old  rotten 
lindens?" 


HIS    WRITINGS 
THE   HARPER'S   SONGI 

effl  sing  but  as  the  linnet  sings, 

That  on  the  green  bough  dwelleth ; 
A  rich  reward  his  music  brings, 

As  from  his  throat  it  swelleth : 
Yet  might  I  ask,  I  'd  ask  of  thine 
One  sparkling  draught  of  purest  wine, 

To  drink  it  here  before  you.' 

He  viewed  the  wine,  he  quaffed  it  up: 

'  Oh  !  draught  of  sweetest  savor ! 
Oh !  happy  house,  where  such  a  cup 

Is  thought  a  little  favor ! 
If  well  you  fare,  remember  me, 
And  thank  kind  Heaven,  from  envy  free, 

As  now  for  this  I  thank  you.'" 

Goethe,  who  wrote  this,  never  signed  the  temperance-pledge : 
no  more  did  Thoreau,  but  drank  the  kind  of  wine  "which 
never  grew  in  the  belly  of  the  grape,"  nor  in  that  of  the  corn. 
He  was  made  more  dry  by  drinking.  These  affections  were  a 
kind  of  resume,  or  infant  thanatopsis,  sharp  on  both  edges. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  this  abundant  moderation,  he  says,  "I  trust 
that  you  realize  what  an  exaggerator  I  am, — that  I  lay  my 
self  out  to  exaggerate  whenever  I  have  an  opportunity,— 
pile  Pelion  upon  Ossa,  to  reach  heaven  so.  Expect  no  trivial 
truth  from  me,  unless  I  am  on  the  witness  stand.  I  will  come 
as  near  to  lying  as  you  will  drive  a  coach-and-four.  If  it  is  n't 
thus  and  so  with  me,  it  is  with  something.11  As  for  writing 

Un  "WilhelmMeister." 
[  243  ] 


THOREAU 

letters,  he  mounts  above  prose.  "Methinks  I  will  write  to 
you.  Methinks  you  will  be  glad  to  hear.  We  will  stand  on 
solid  foundations  to  one  another, — I  am  a  column  planted  on 
this  shore,  you  on  that.  We  meet  the  same  sun  in  his  rising. 
We  were  built  slowly,  and  have  come  to  our  bearing.  We  will 
not  mutually  fall  over  that  we  may  meet,  but  will  grandly 
and  eternally  guard  the  straits." 

" My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach,  — 
I  have  but  few  companions  by  the  shore." 

"Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home; 
His  hearth  the  earth,,  his  hall  the  azure  dome ; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there's  his  road." 

EMERSON. 

This  well-known  speech  to  his  large  and  respectable  circle 
of  acquaintance  beyond  the  mountains  is  a  pretty  night-piece : 
"Greeting:  My  most  serene  and  irresponsible  neighbors,  let 
us  see  that  we  have  the  whole  advantage  of  each  other.  We 
will  be  useful,  at  least,  if  not  admirable  to  one  another.  I 
know  that  the  mountains  which  separate  us  are  high,  and 
covered  with  perpetual  snow;  but  despair  not.  Improve  the 
serene  weather  to  scale  them.  If  need  be,  soften  the  rocks 
with  vinegar.  For  here  lies  the  verdant  plain  of  Italy  ready 
to  receive  you.  Nor  shall  I  be  slow  on  my  side  to  penetrate  to 
your  Provence.  Strike  then  boldly  at  head  or  heart,  or  any 
vital  part.  Depend  upon  it  the  timber  is  well  seasoned  and 
tough,  and  will  bear  rough  usage;  and  if  it  should  crack, 
there  is  plenty  more  where  it  came  from.  I  am  no  piece  of 

[  244  ] 


HIS     WRITINGS 

crockery,  that  cannot  be  jostled  against  my  neighbor  with 
out  being  in  danger  of  being  broken  by  the  collision,  and 
must  needs  ring  false  and  jarringly  to  the  end  of  my  days 
when  once  I  am  cracked ;  but  rather  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
wooden  trenchers,  which  one  while  stands  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  and  at  another  is  a  milking-stool,  and  at  another  a 
seat  for  children;  and,  finally,  goes  down  to  its  grave  not  un 
adorned  with  honorable  scars,  and  does  not  die  till  it  is  worn 
out.  Nothing  can  shock  a  brave  man  but  dulness.  Think  how 
many  rebuffs  every  man  has  experienced  in  his  day, — per 
haps  has  fallen  into  a  horse-pond,  eaten  fresh- water  clams,  or 
worn  one  shirt  for  a  week  without  washing.  Indeed,  you  can 
not  receive  a  shock,  unless  you  have  an  electric  affinity  for 
that  which  shocks  you.  Use  me,  then;  for  I  am  useful  in  my 
way,  and  stand  as  one  of  many  petitioners, — from  toadstool 
and  henbane  up  to  dahlia  and  violet, — supplicating  to  be 
put  to  any  use,  if  by  any  means  you  may  find  me  serviceable : 
whether  for  a  medicated  drink  or  bath,  as  balm  and  laven 
der  ;  or  for  fragrance,  as  verbena  and  geranium ;  or  for  sight, 
as  cactus;  or  for  thoughts,  as  pansy.  These  humbler,  at  least, 
if  not  those  higher  uses." 
So  good  a  writer  should 

"live 
Upon  the  alms  of  his  superfluous  praise." 

He  was  choice  in  his  words.  "  All  these  sounds,"  says  he,  "  the 
crowing  of  cocks,  the  baying  of  dogs,  and  the  hum  of  insects 
at  noon,  are  the  evidence  of  nature's  health  or  sound  state." 

[  245  ] 


THOREAU 

For  so  learned  a  man  he  spared  his  erudition;  neither  did 
he,  as  one  who  was  no  mean  poet,  use  lines  like  these  to  cele 
brate  his  clearness: — 

"Who  dares  upbraid  these  open  rhymes  of  mine 
With  blindfold  Aquines,  or  darke  Venusine? 
Or  rough-hewn  Teretisius,  writ  in  th'  antique  vain 
Like  an  old  satire,  and  new  Flaccian? 
Which  who  reads  thrice,  and  rubs  his  ragged  brow, 
And  deep  indenteth  every  doubtful  row, 
Scoring  the  margent  with  his  blazing  stars, 
And  hundredth  crooked  interlinears 
(Like  to  a  merchant's  debt-roll  new  defaced, 
When  some  crack' d  Manour  cross' d  his  book  at  last), 
Should  all  in  rage  the  curse-beat  page  out-rive, 
And  in  each  dust-heap  bury  me  alive." 

HALL'S  SATIRES. 

There  are  so  few  obscurities  in  Thoreau's  writing,  that  the 
uneasy  malevolence  of  ephemeral  critics  has  not  discovered 
enough  to  cite,  and  his  style  has  that  ease  and  moderateness 
which  appeal  to  taste. 

He  had  the  sense  of  humor,  and  in  one  place  indulges 
himself  in  some  Latin  fun,  where  he  names  the  wild  apples, 
creatures  of  his  fancy.  "There  is,  first  of  all,  the  wood-apple, 
Mains  sylvatica;  the  blue-jay  apple;  the  apple  which  grows 
in  dells  in  the  wroods,  sylvestrivallis ;  also  in  hollows  in  pas 
tures,  campestrwallis ;  the  apple  that  grows  in  an  old  cellar- 
hole,  Mains  cellaris;  the  meadow-apple;  the  partridge-apple; 
the  truants1  apple,  cessatoris;  the  saunterer's  apple, — you 
must  lose  yourself  before  you  can  find  the  way  to  that;  the 

[  246  ] 


HIS     WRITINGS 

beauty  of  the  air,  decus  aeris;  December-eating;  the  frozen- 
thawed,  gelato-soluta  ,-  the  brindled  apple ;  wine  of  New  Eng 
land;  the  chickadee  apple;  the  green  apple, — this  has  many 
synonymes;  in  its  perfect  state  it  is  the  Cholera  morbifera  ant 
dysenterifera,  puerulis  dilectissima ;  the  hedge-apple,  Malus 
sepium;  the  slug  apple,  limacea;  the  apple  whose  fruit  we 
tasted  in  our  youth;  our  particular  apple,  not  to  be  found 
in  any  catalogue,  pedestrium  solatium"  and  many  others. 
His  love  of  this  sour  vegetable  is  characteristic :  it  is  the  wild 
flavor,  the  acidity,  the  difficulty  of  eating  it,  which  pleased. 
The  lover  of  gravy,  the  justice  lined  with  capon,  apoplectic 
professors  in  purple  skulls,  who  reckon  water  a  nuisance,  never 
loved  his  pen  that  praised  poverty:  "Quid  est  paupertas? 
odibile  bonum,  sanitatis  mater,  curarum  remotio,  absque  sol- 
licitudine  semita,  sapientiae  reparatrix,  negotium  sine  damno, 
intractabilis  substantia,  possessio  absque  calumnia,  incerta 
fortuna,  sine  sollicitudine  felicitas."  * 

Or  in  what  he  names  complemental  verses  from  Wither:  — 

"Thou  dost  presume  too  much,  poor  needy  wretch, 
To  claim  a  station  in  the  firmament, 
Because  thy  humble  cottage,  or  thy  tub, 
Nurses  some  lazy  or  pedantic  virtue, 
With  roots  and  pot-herbs.  We,  more  high,  advance 
Such  virtues  only  as  admit  excess,  — 
Brave,  bounteous  acts,  regal  magnificence, 

1 A  free  rendition:  "What  is  poverty?  Kerosene  lamps,  taking  tea  out, 
Dalley's  pain-killer,  horse-cars,  scolding  help,  bookseller's  accounts,  mod 
ern  rubber  boots,  what  nobody  discounts,  the  next  tax-bill,  sitting  in 
your  minister's  pew."  (The  original  is  in  Secundus.  F.  B.  s.) 

[  247  ] 


THOREAU 

All-seeing  prudence,  magnanimity 
That  knows  no  bound,  and  that  heroic  virtue 
For  which  antiquity  hath  left  no  name, 
But  patterns  only,  such  as  Hercules, 
Achilles,  Theseus;— back  to  thy  loath'd  cell !" 

He  neglected  no  culture,  left  nothing  undone  that  could 
aid  him  in  his  works;  and  a  paragraph  he  left  for  guidance 
in  such  pursuits  may  be  cited:  "Whatever  wit  has  been 
produced  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  will  bear  to  be  recon 
sidered  and  re-formed  with  phlegm.  The  arrow  had  best  not 
be  loosely  shot.  The  most  transient  and  passing  remark  must 
be  reconsidered  by  the  writer,  made  sure  and  warranted,  as  if 
the  earth  had  rested  on  its  axle  to  back  it,  and  all  the  natu 
ral  forces  lay  behind  it.  The  writer  must  direct  his  sentences 
as  carefully  and  leisurely  as  the  marksman  his  rifle, — who 
shoots  sitting,  and  with  a  rest,  with  patent  sights,  and  conical 
balls  beside.  If  you  foresee  that  a  part  of  your  essay  will 
topple  down  after  the  lapse  of  time,  throw  it  down  yourself." 
This  advice  may  be  pressed  on  all  writers,  and  this  on  all 
livers:  "I  cannot  stay  to  be  congratulated;  I  would  leave 
the  world  behind  me."  No  labor  was  too  great,  no  expense 
too  costly,  if  only  laid  out  in  the  right  direction;  and  the 
series  of  extracts  he  has  left  on  the  history  of  the  Indians  is 
a  proof  of  this.  These  books,  forming  a  little  library  of  them 
selves,  consist  of  such  extracts  from  all  the  writers  on  the 
Indians,  all  the  world  over,  as  would  have  value  and  advan 
tage  for  him.  He  read  the  long  and  painful  series  of  Jesuit 
Relations,  by  the  Canadian  originals, — the  early  works  in 

[248] 


HIS     WRITINGS 

American  history  at  Harvard  College;  collected,  compared, 
and  copied  the  early  maps,  early  figures  of  the  Indians  (such 
as  those  of  De  Bry) ;  read  all  travels  which  he  could  procure, 
and  carefully  excerpted  all  facts  bearing  on  the  subject  of 
Indians,  yet  this  vast  labor  and  expense  and  toil, — far  more 
than  most  literary  men  willingly  undergo  in  their  lives, — 
were  but  the  pursuit  of  a  collateral  topic. 

He  had  that  pleasant  art  of  convertibility,  by  which  he 
could  render  the  homely  strains  of  Nature  into  homely  verse 
and  prose,  holding  yet  the  flavor  of  their  immortal  origins; 
while  meagre  and  barren  writers  upon  science  do  perhaps  in 
tend  to  describe  that  quick  being  of  which  they  prose,  yet 
never  loose  a  word  of  happiness  or  humor.  The  art  of  de 
scribing  realities,  and  imparting  to  them  a  touch  of  human 
nature,  is  something  comfortable.  A  few  bits  of  such  natural 
history  as  this  follow:  — 

(October,  1851.)  "A  hornets'-nest  I  discovered  in  a  rather 
tall  huckleberry -bush,  the  stem  projecting  through  it,  the 
leaves  spreading  over  it.  How  these  fellows  avail  themselves 
of  these  vegetables!  They  kept  arriving,  the  great  fellows 
(with  white  abdomens),  but  I  never  saw  whence  they  came, 
but  only  heard  the  buzz  just  at  the  entrance.  At  length,  after 
I  had  stood  before  the  nest  for  five  minutes,  during  which 
time  they  had  taken  no  notice  of  me,  two  seemed  to  be  con 
sulting  at  the  entrance,  and  then  made  a  threatening  dash  at 
me,  and  returned  to  the  nest.  I  took  the  hint  and  retired. 
They  spoke  as  plainly  as  man  could  have  done.  I  examined 
this  nest  again:  I  found  no  hornets  buzzing  about;  the  en- 

[  249  ] 


THOREAU 

trance  seemed  to  have  been  enlarged,  so  I  concluded  it  had 
been  deserted,  but  looking  nearer  I  discovered  two  or  three 
dead  hornets,  men-of-war,  in  the  entry-way.  Cutting  off  the 
bushes  which  sustained  it,  I  proceeded  to  open  it  with  my 
knife.  It  was  an  inverted  cone,  eight  or  nine  inches  by  seven 
or  eight.  First,  there  were  half  a  dozen  layers  of  waved, 
brownish  paper  resting  loosely  over  one  another,  occupying 
nearly  an  inch  in  thickness,  for  a  covering.  Within  were  the 
six-sided  cells,  in  three  stories,  suspended  from  the  roof  and 
from  one  another  by  one  or  two  suspension -rods  only;  the 
lower  story  much  smaller  than  the  rest.  And  in  what  may 
be  called  the  attic  or  garret  of  the  structure  were  two  live 
hornets  partially  benumbed  with  cold.  It  was  like  a  deserted 
castle  of  the  Mohawks,  a  few  dead  ones  at  the  entrance  to 
the  fortress." 

"The  prinos  berries  (Prinos  vertitillatus)  are  quite  red;  the 
dogwood  has  lost  every  leaf,  its  bunches  of  dry,  greenish 
berries  hanging  straight  down  from  the  bare  stout  twigs, 
as  if  their  peduncles  were  broken.  It  has  assumed  its  winter 
aspect, — a  Mithridatic  look.  The  black  birch  (Betula  lento)  is 
straw-colored,  the  witch-hazel  (Hamamelis  Virginica)  is  now 
in  bloom.  I  perceive  the  fragrance  of  ripe  grapes  in  the  air. 
The  little  conical  burrs  of  the  agrimony  stick  to  my  clothes; 
the  pale  lobelia  still  blooms  freshly,  and  the  rough  hawk- 
weed  holds  up  its  globes  of  yellowish  fuzzy  seeds,  as  well  as 
the  panicled.  The  declining  sun  falling  on  the  willows  and  on 
the  water  produces  a  rare,  soft  light  I  do  not  often  see, — a 
greenish-yellow." 

[  250  ] 


HIS     WRITINGS 

"Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter, 

Many  a  lagging  year  agone, 
Gliding  o'er  thy  rippling  waters, 
Lowly  hummed  a  natural  song. 

"Now  the  sun 's  behind  the  willows, 
Now  he  gleams  along  the  waves, 
Faintly  o'er  the  wearied  billows 
Come  the  spirits  of  the  braves. 

"The  reach  of  the  river  between  Bedford  and  Carlisle,  seen 
from  a  distance,  has  a  strangely  ethereal,  celestial,  or  elysian 
look.  It  is  of  a  light  sky-blue,  alternating  with  smoother 
white  streaks,  where  the  surface  reflects  the  light  differently, 
like  a  milk -pan  full  of  the  milk  of  Valhalla  partially  skimmed, 
more  gloriously  and  heavenly  fair  and  pure  than  the  sky 
itself.  We  have  names  for  the  rivers  of  hell,  but  none  for  the 
rivers  of  heaven,  unless  the  Milky  Way  may  be  one.  It  is  such 
a  smooth  and  shining  blue,  like  a  panoply  of  sky-blue  plates, — 
"  'Sug'ring  all  dangers  with  success.' 

"Fairhaven  Pond,  seen  from  the  Cliffs  in  the  moonlight,  is  < 
a  sheeny  lake  of  apparently  a  boundless  primitive  forest,  un 
trodden  by  man ;  the  windy  surf  sounding  freshly  and  wildly 
in  the  single  pine  behind  you,  the  silence  of  hushed  wolves  in 
the  wilderness,  and,  as  you  fancy,  moose  looking  off  from  the 
shores  of  the  lake ;  the  stars  of  poetry  and  history  and  unex 
plored  nature  looking  down  on  the  scene.  This  light  and  this 
hour  take  the  civilization  all  out  of  the  landscape.  Even  at 
this  time  in  the  evening  (8  P.M.)  the  crickets  chirp  and  the 
small  birds  peep,  the  wind  roars  in  the  wood,  as  if  it  were 

[251  ] 


THOREAU 

just  before  dawn.  The  landscape  is  flattened  into  mere  light 
and  shade,  from  the  least  elevation.  A  field  of  ripening  corn, 
now  at  night,  that  has  been  topped,  with  the  stalks  stacked 
up,  has  an  inexpressibly  dry,  sweet,  rich  ripening  scent :  I  feel 
as  I  were  an  ear  of  ripening  corn  myself.  Is  not  the  whole  air 
a  compound  of  such  odors  indistinguishable?  Drying  corn 
stalks  in  a  field,  what  an  herb  garden !  What  if  one  moon  has 
come  and  gone  with  its  world  of  poetry,  so  divine  a  creature 
freighted  with  its  hints  for  me,  and  I  not  use  them ! " 

He  loved  the  iroAv<£Aoib-/?oi/  Oa\da-a-fjv9  the  noisy  sea,  and  has 
left  a  pleasant  sketch  of  his  walks  along  the  beach;  but  he 
never  attempted  the  ocean  passage.  The  shore  at  Truro,  on 
Cape  Cod,  which  he  at  one  time  frequented,  has  been  thus  in 
part  described.1 

A  little  Hamlet  hid  away  from  men, 

Spoil  for  no  painter's  eye,  no  poet's  pen, 

Modest  as  some  brief  flower,  concealed,  obscure, 

It  nestles  on  the  high  and  echoing  shore ; 

Yet  here  I  found  I  was  a  welcome  guest, 

At  generous  Nature's  hospitable  feast. 

The  barren  moors  no  fences  girdled  high, 

The  endless  beaches  planting  could  defy, 

And  the  blue  sea  admitted  all  the  air, 

A  cordial  draught,  so  sparkling  and  so  rare. 

The  aged  widow  in  her  cottage  lone, 
Of  solitude  and  musing  patient  grown, 
Could  let  me  wander  o'er  her  scanty  fields, 
And  pick  the  flower  that  contemplation  yields. 

1  By  Channing,  — the  whole  is  in  "Poems  of  Sixty-five  Years." 


HIS     WRITINGS 

This  vision  past,  and  all  the  rest  was  mine,  — 

The  gliding  vessel  on  the  ocean's  line, 

That  left  the  world  wherein  my  senses  strayed, 

Yet  long  enough  her  soft  good-by  delayed 

To  let  my  eye  engross  her  beauty  rare, 

Kissed  by  the  seas,  an  infant  of  the  air. 

Thou,  too,  wert  mine,  the  green  and  curling  wave, 

Child  of  the  sand,  a  playful  child  and  brave ; 

Urged  on  the  gale,  the  crashing  surges  fall ; 

The  zephyr  breathes,  how  softly  dances  all ! 

Dread  ocean-wave !  some  eyes  look  out  o'er  thee 
And  fill  with  tears,  and  ask,  Could  such  things  be? 
Why  slept  the  All-seeing  Heart  when  death  was  near? 
Be  hushed  each  doubt,  assuage  thy  throbbing  fear ! 
Think  One  who  made  the  sea  and  made  the  wind 
Might  also  feel  for  our  lost  human  kind ; 
And  they  who  sleep  amid  the  surges  tall 
Summoned  great  Nature  to  their  funeral, 
And  she  obeyed.  We  fall  not  far  from  shore ; 
The  sea-bird's  wail,  the  surf,  our  loss  deplore; 
The  melancholy  main  goes  sounding  on 
His  world-old  anthem  o'er  our  horizon. 

As  Turner  was  in  the  habit  of  adding  what  he  thought  ex 
planatory  verses  to  his  landscapes,  so  it  may  be  said  of  some 
books,  besides  the  special  subject  treated  they  are  diversified 
with  quotations.  Thoreau  adhered  closely  to  his  topic,  yet  in 
his  "Week"  as  many  as  a  hundred  authors  are  quoted,  and 
there  are  more  than  three  hundred  passages  either  cited  or 
touched  upon.  In  fact,  there  are  some  works  that  have  rather 
a  peculiar  value  for  literary  gentry,  like  Pliny,  Montaigne, 

[  253  ] 


THOREAU 

and  Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  upon  which  last 
work  Lord  Byron  thought  many  authors  had  constructed  a 
reputation. 

Thoreau's  style  is  one  of  the  best  English  styles  that  I  am 
acquainted  with;  not  tumultuous  or  exaggerated,  nor  dry  and 
pointed,  it  has  the  mellowness  of  the  older  English, — some 
times  almost  its  quaintness, — but  usually  expresses  admirably 
the  intent  of  his  mind.  It  was  no  small  practice  which  fulfilled 
his  motto, — "Improve  every  opportunity  to  express  yourself 
in  writing  as  if  it  were  your  last."  His  facility  was  truly  mar 
vellous  ;  he  seemed  made  for  holding  a  pen  between  his  fingers 
and  getting  excellent  sentences,  where  other  writers  hobble 
and  correct.  Yet  he  used  the  file  very  often, — nowhere  more, 
I  fancy,  than  in  some  of  his  "Maine  Woods'"  papers,  which 
indeed  were  not  easy  to  write.  Think  of  the  fertility  of  such 
a  mind  —  not  wielding  the  pen  for  taskwork,  but  pleasure — 
pouring  forth  this  admirable  portrait-painting  of  fish,  bird, 
or  insect,  the  season  or  the  hour  of  the  day;  never  wearied, 
never  worn,  but  always  exhilarate  and  full  of  cheer.  Few  ob 
jects  impressed  him  more  than  the  form  of  birds,  and  his  few 
felicitous  touches  are  well  worth  citing.  He  speaks  of  "a  gull 
pure  white,  a  wave  of  foam  in  the  air, — all  wing,  like  a  birch- 
scale."  He  mistook  two  white  ducks  for  "the  foaming  crest 
of  a  wave"  and  sees  a  small  duck  that  is  "all  neck  and  wings, 
— a  winged  roll-pin."  Snow-buntings  he  calls  "winged  snow 
balls."  The  flight  of  the  peetweet  reminds  him  of  an  impression 
we  all  have  had, — but  who  has  described  it?  "Their  wings  ap 
pear  double  as  they  fly  by  you." 

[  254  ] 


HIS     WRITINGS 

A  list  follows  of  the  writings  of  Thoreau,  as  they  appeared 
chronologically.  These  have  been  since  printed  in  separate  vol 
umes,  if  they  did  not  so  appear  at  first  (with  few  exceptions), 
under  the  titles  of  "Excursions,  1863,"  "The  Maine  Woods, 
1864,"  "A  Yankee  in  Canada,  1866,"  "Cape  Cod,  1865,"  and 
in  addition  a  volume  of  letters,  1865.1 

A  WALK  TO  WACHUSETT. — In  the  "Boston  Miscellany." 

IN  THE  DIAL.  — 1840-1844:  — 

Vol.  I. — Sympathy.  Aulus  Persius  Flaccus.  Nature  doth  have  her 

dawn  each  day. 

Vol.  II.— Sic  Vita.  Friendship. 

Vol.  III.  — Natural  History  of  Massachusetts.  In  (<  Prayers,"  the  pas 
sage  beginning  "Great  God."  The  Black  Knight.  The  Inward 
Morning.  Free  Love.  The  Poet's  Delay.  Rumors  from  an  ^Eolian 
Harp.  The  Moon.  To  the  Maiden  in  the  East.  The  Summer  Rain. 
The  Laws  of  Menu.  Prometheus  Bound.  Anacreon.  To  a  Stray 
Fowl.  Orphics.  Dark  Ages. 

Vol.  IV. — A  Winter  Walk.  Homer,  Ossian,  Chaucer.  Pindar.  Frag 
ments  of  Pindar.  Herald  of  Freedom. 

IN  THE  DEMOCRATIC  REVIEW,  1843.  — The  Landlord.   Paradise  (to  be) 
Regained. 

IN  GRAHAM'S  MAGAZINE,  1847. — Thomas  Carlyle  and  his  Works. 

IN  THE  UNION  MAGAZINE.  — Ktaadn  and  the  Maine  Woods. 

IN  ^ESTHETIC  PAPERS.  —  Resistance  to  Civil  Government. 

A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  AND  MERRIMAC  RIVERS.  Boston :  James  Mon 
roe  and  Company,  1849. 

IN  PUTNAM'S  MAGAZINE. — Excursion  to  Canada  (in  part).  Cape  Cod  (in 
part). 

WALDEN.  Boston :  Ticknor  and  Company,  1854. 

1  Since  then  (1894)  the  letters  have  been  reprinted  with  many  additions,  and 
there  are  now  a  dozen  volumes  of  Thoreau's  works. 

[255] 


THOREAU 

IN  THE  LIBERATOR.  — Speech  at  Framingham,  July  4,  1854.  Reminis 
cences  of  John  Brown  (read  at  North  Elba,  July  4,  1860). 

IN  "ECHOES  FROM  HARPER'S  FERRY."  — 1860.  Lecture  on  John  Brown, 
and  Remarks  at  Concord  on  the  day  of  his  execution. 

IN  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY,  1859. — Chesuncook,  1862.  Walking.  Au 
tumnal  Tints.  Wild  Apples. 

IN  THE  NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE.  —  The  Succession  of  Forest  Trees  (also 
printed  in  the  Middlesex  Agricultural  Transactions).  1860. 

"Nil  mihi  rescribas,  attamen  ipse  veni." 


[  256  ] 


PERSONALITIES 


"If  great  men  wrong  me,  I  will  spare  myself; 
If  mean,  I  will  spare  them." 

DONNE. 

"As  soon  as  generals  are  dismembered  and  distributed  into  parts,  they 
become  so  much  attenuated  as  in  a  mariner  to  disappear ;  wherefore  the 
terms  by  which  they  are  expressed  undergo  the  same  attenuation,  and 
seem  to  vanish  and  fail." 

SWEDENBORG. 

"The  art  of  overturning  states  is  to  discredit  established  customs,  by 
looking  into  their  origin,  and  pointing  out  that  it  was  defective  in  author 
ity  and  justice." 

PASCAL. 

"Adspice  murorum  moles,  praeruptaque  saxa, 
Obrutaque  horrenti  vasta  theatra  situ, 
Haec  sunt  Roma.  Viden'  velut  ipsa  cadavera  tantse 
Urbis  adhuc  spirent  imperiosa  minas." 

JANUS  VITALIS. 


CHAPTER     XIII 

PERSONALITIES 

OUR  author's  life  can  be  divided  in  three  parts:  first,  to  the 
year  1837,  when  he  left  college;  next,  to  the  publishing  of  his 
"Week,"  in  1849  (ten  years  after  his  first  excursion  up  the 
Merrimac  River,  of  which  that  work  treats);  and  the  remain 
der  of  his  doings  makes  the  third.  It  was  after  he  had  gradu 
ated  that  he  began  to  embalm  his  thoughts  in  a  diary,  and 
not  till  many  years1  practice  did  they  assume  a  systematic 
shape.  This  same  year  (1837)  brought  him  into  relation  with 
a  literary  man  (Emerson),  by  which  his  mind  may  have  been 
first  soberly  impregnated  with  that  love  of  letters  that  after 
accompanied  him,  but  of  whom  he  was  no  servile  copyist.  He 
had  so  wisely  been  nourished  at  the  collegiate  fount  as  to 
come  forth  undissipated ;  not  digging  his  grave  in  tobacco 
and  coffee, — those  two  perfect  causes  of  paralysis.  "I  have  a 
faint  recollection  of  pleasure  derived  from  smoking  dried  lily- 
stems  before  I  was  a  man.  I  have  never  smoked  anything 
more  noxious."  His  school-keeping  was  a  nominal  occupancy 
of  his  time  for  a  couple  of  years ;  and  he  soon  began  to  serve 
the  mistress  to  whom  he  was  afterward  bound,  and  to  sing 
the  immunity  of  Pan.  Some  long-anticipated  excursion  set  the 
date  upon  the  year,  and  furnished  its  materials  for  the  jour 
nal.  And  at  length,  in  1842,  he  printed  in  a  fabulous  quar 
terly,  "The  Dial,"  a  paper;  and  again,  in  1843,  came  out 
"The  Walk  to  Wachusett,"  a  bracing  revival  of  exhilarat- 

[359] 


THOREAU 

ing  thoughts  caught  from  the  mountain  atmosphere.  In  the 
"Dial"  came  the  poems  before  commented  upon;  it  afforded 
him  sufficient  space  to  record  his  pious  hopes  and  sing  the 
glories  of  the  world  he  habitually  admired.  With  the  actual 
publication  of  the  "Week,""  at  his  own  expense,  and  which 
cost  him  his  labor  for  several  years  to  defray,  begins  a  new 
era, — he  is  introduced  to  a  larger  circle  and  launches  forth 
his  paper  nautilus,  well  pleased  to  eye  its  thin  and  many- 
colored  ribs  shining  in  the  watery  sunshine.  His  early  friends 
and  readers  never  failed,  and  others  increased;  thus  was  he 
rising  in  literary  fame, — 

"That  like  a  wounded  snake  drags  its  slow  length  along." 

Then  came  the  log-book  of  his  woodland  cruise  at  Walden, 
his  critical  articles  upon  Thomas  Carlyle  and  others;  and  he 
began  to  appear  as  a  lecturer,  with  a  theory,  as  near  as  he 
could  have  one.  He  was  not  to  try  to  suit  his  audience,  but 
consult  the  prompting  of  his  genius  and  suit  himself.  If  a  de 
mand  was  made  for  a  lecture,  he  would  gratify  it  so  far  as  in 
him  lay,  but  he  could  not  descend  from  the  poetry  of  insight 
to  the  incubation  of  prose.  Lecture  committees  at  times  failed 
to  see  the  prophetic  god,  and  also  the  statute-putty.  "  Walden  " 
increased  his  repute  as  a  writer,  if  some  great  men  thought 
him  bean-dieted,  with  an  owl  for  his  minister,  and  who  milked 
creation,  not  the  cow.  It  is  in  vain  for  the  angels  to  contend 
against  stupidity. 

He  began  to  take  more  part  in  affairs  (the  Anti-slavery 
crisis  coming  to  the  boil)  in  1857.  Captain  John  Brown,  after 

[  260  ] 


PERSONALITIES 

of  Harper's  Ferry,  was  in  Concord  that  year,  and  had  talk 
with  Thoreau,  who  knew  nothing  of  his  revolutionary  plans. 
He  shot  off  plenty  of  coruscating  abolition  rockets  at  Fra- 
mingham  and  elsewhere,  and  took  his  chance  in  preaching  at 
those  animated  free-churches  which  pushed  from  the  rotting 
compost  of  the  Southern  hot-bed.  At  Worcester  he  is  said  to 
have  read  a  damaging-institution  lecture  upon  "  Beans,"  that 
has  never  got  to  print.  He  carried  more  guns  than  they,  at 
those  irritable  reform  meetings,  which  served  as  a  discharge- 
pipe  for  the  virus  of  all  the  regular  scolds;  for  he  did  not 
spatter  by  the  job.  At  the  time  of  Sims's  rendition  he  offered 
to  his  townsmen  that  the  revolutionary  monument  should  be 
thickly  coated  with  black  paint  as  a  symbol  of  that  dismal 
treason.  He,  too,  had  the  glory  of  speaking  the  first  public 
good  word  for  Captain  John  Brown,  after  his  attack  upon 
the  beast  run  for  the  American  plate, — that  Moloch  entered 
by  Jeff.  Davis  and  backers.  In  three  years  more  the  United 
States,  that  killed  instead  of  protecting  bold  Osawatomie, 
was  enlisting  North  Carolina  slaves  to  fight  against  Virginia 
slaveholders. 

It  must  be  considered  the  superior  and  divine  event  of  his 
human  experience  when  that  famed  hero  of  liberty  forced 
the  serpent  of  slavery  from  its  death-grasp  on  the  American 
Constitution.  John  Brown  "expected  to  endure  hardness"; 
and  this  was  the  expectation  and  fruition  of  Thoreau,  natu 
rally  and  by  his  culture.  His  was  a  more  sour  and  saturnine 
hatred  of  injustice,  his  life  was  more  passive,  and  he  lost  the 
glory  of  action  which  fell  to  the  lot  of  Brown.  He  had  naught 

[  261  ] 


THOREAU 

in  his  thoughts  of  which  a  plot  could  spin;  neither  did  he 
believe  in  civil  government,  or  that  form  of  police  against  the 
Catiline  or  Caesar,  who  has  ready  a  coup  (Tetat,  such  as  the 
speckled  Napoleonic  egg,  now  addled,  that  was  laid  in  Paris. 
Thoreau  worshipped  a  hero  in  a  mortal  disguise,  under  the 
shape  of  that  homely  son  of  justice:  his  pulses  thrilled  and 
his  hands  involuntarily  clenched  together  at  the  mention  of 
Captain  Brown,  at  whose  funeral  in  Concord  he  said  a  few 
words,  and  prepared  a  version  of  Tacitus  upon  Agricola,  some 
lines  of  which  are: — 

"You,  Agricola,  are  fortunate,  not  only  because  your  life 
was  glorious,  but  because  your  death  was  timely.  As  they  tell 
us  who  heard  your  last  words,  unchanged  and  willing  you  ac 
cepted  your  fate.  .  .  .  Let  us  honor  you  by  our  admiration, 
rather  than  by  short-lived  praises ;  and,  if  Nature  aid  us,  by 
our  emulation  of  you."  He  had  before  said:  "When  I  now 
look  over  my  common-place  book  of  poetry,  I  find  that  the 
best  of  it  is  oftenest  applicable,  in  part  or  wholly,  to  the  case 
of  Captain  Brown.  The  sense  of  grand  poetry,  read  by  the 
light  of  this  event,  is  brought  out  distinctly  like  an  invisible 
writing  held  to  the  fire.  As  Marvell  wrote: — 

" '  When  the  sword  glitters  o'er  the  judge's  head, 
And  fear  has  coward  churchmen  silenced, 
Then  is  the  poet's  time;  'tis  then  he  draws, 
And  single  fights  forsaken  virtue's  cause : 
Sings  still  of  ancient  rights  and  better  times, 
Seeks  suffering  good,  arraigns  successful  crimes.' 

"And  George  Chapman:  — 

[  262  ] 


PERSONALITIES 

t( 'There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  who  knows 
What  life  and  death  is ;  there 's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge.' 

"And  Wotton:  — 

"'Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 

Of  hope  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all.'" 

The  foundation  of  his  well-chosen  attainment  in  Modern 
and  Classic  authors  dates  from  the  origin  of  his  literary  life. 
In  college  he  studied  only  what  was  best,  and  made  it  the 
rule.  He  could  say  to  young  students:  "Begin  with  the  best! 
start  with  what  is  so ;  never  deviate."  That  part  of  American 
history  he  studied  was  pre-pilgrim :  the  Jesuit  Relations,  early 
New  England  authors,  Wood,  Smith,  or  Josselyn,  afforded 
him  cordial  entertainment.  Henry's  Travels,  Lewis  and  Clark, 
and  such  books,  he  knew  remarkably  well,  and  thought  no 
one  had  written  better  accounts  of  things  or  made  them  more 
living  than  Goethe  in  his  letters  from  Italy. 

Alpine  and  sea-side  plants  he  admired,  besides  those  of  his 
own  village :  of  the  latter,  he  mostly  attended  willows,  golden- 
rods,  asters,  polygonums,  sedges,  and  grasses;  fungi  and  li 
chens  he  somewhat  affected.  He  was  accustomed  to  date  the 
day  of  the  month  by  the  appearance  of  certain  flowers,  and 
thus  visited  special  plants  for  a  series  of  years,  in  order  to  form 
an  average;  as  his  white-thorn  by  TarbelPs  Spring,  "good  for 
to-morrow,  if  not  for  to-day."  The  bigness  of  noted  trees,  the 
number  of  their  rings,  the  degree  of  branching  by  which  their 

[  263  ] 


THOREAU 

age  may  be  drawn;  the  larger  forests,  such  as  that  princely 
"Inches  Oak-wood1'  in  West  Acton,  or  Wetherbee's  patch,  he 
paid  attentions  to.  Here  he  made  his  cards,  and  left  more 
than  a  pack;  his  friends  were  surely  disengaged,  unless  they 
had  been  cut  off.  He  could  sink  down  in  the  specific  history 
of  a  woodland  by  learning  what  trees  now  occupied  the  soil.  In 
some  seasons  he  bored  a  variety  of  forest  trees,  when  the  sap 
was  amiable,  and  made  his  black-birch  and  other  light  wines. 
He  tucked  plants  away  in  his  soft  hat  in  place  of  a  botany- 
box.  His  study  (a  place  in  the  garret)  held  its  dry  miscellany 
of  botanical  specimens;  its  corner  of  canes,  its  cases  of  eggs 
and  lichens,  and  a  weight  of  Indian  arrow-heads  and  hatchets, 
besides  a  store  of  nuts,  of  which  he  was  as  fond  as  squirrels. 
"Man  comes  out  of  his  winter  quarters  in  March  as  lean  as  a 
woodchuck,"  he  said. 

In  the  varieties  of  tracks  he  was  a  philologist;  he  read  that 
primeval  language,  and  studied  the  snow  for  them,  as  well  as 
for  its  wonderful  blue  and  pink  colors,  and  its  floccular  deposits 
as  it  melts.  He  saw  that  hunter's  track  who  always  steps  before 
you  come.  Ice  in  all  its  lines  and  polish  he  peculiarly  admired. 
From  Billerica  Falls  to  Saxonville  ox-bow,  thirty  miles  or  more, 
he  sounded  the  deeps  and  shallows  of  the  Concord  River,  and 
put  down  in  his  tablets  that  he  had  such  a  feeling.  Gossamer 
was  a  shifting  problem,  beautifully  vague.  Street  says: — 

"A  ceaseless  glimmering,  near  the  ground,  betrays 
The  gossamer,  its  tiny  thread  is  waving  past, 
Borne  on  the  wind's  faint  breath,  and  to  yon  branch, 
Tangled  and  trembling,  clings  like  snowy  silk." 

[  264  ] 


PERSONALITIES 

Insects  were  fascinating,  from  the  first  gray  little  moth, 
the  perla,  born  in  February's  deceitful  glare,  and  the  "fuzzy 
gnats"  that  people  the  gay  sunbeams,  to  the  last  luxuriat 
ing  Vanessa  antiope,  that  gorgeous  purple-velvet  butterfly 
somewhat  wrecked  amid  November's  champaign  breakers.  He 
sought  for  and  had  honey-bees  in  the  close  spathe  of  the 
marsh-cabbage,  when  the  eye  could  detect  no  opening  of  the 
same;  water-bugs,  skaters,  carrion  beetles,  devil's-needles  ("the 
French  call  them  demoiselles,  the  artist  loves  to  paint  them, 
and  paint  must  be  cheap");  the  sap-green,  glittering,  irides 
cent  cicindelas,  those  lively  darlings  of  Newbury  sandbanks 
and  Professor  Peck,1  he  lingered  over  as  heaven's  never-to- 
be  repainted  Golconda.  Hornets,  wasps,  bees,  and  spiders, 
and  their  several  nests,  he  carefully  attended.  The  worms  and 
caterpillars,  washed  in  the  spring-freshets  from  the  meadow- 
grass,  filled  his  soul  with  hope  at  the  profuse  vermicular  ex 
pansion  of  Nature.  The  somersaults  of  the  caracoling  stream 
were  his  vital  pursuit,  which,  slow  as  it  appears,  now  and  then 
jumps  up  three  feet  in  the  sacred  ash-barrel  of  the  peaceful 
cellar.  Hawks,  ducks,  sparrows,  thrushes,  and  migrating  war 
blers,  in  all  their  variety,  he  carefully  perused  with  his  field- 
glass, —  an  instrument  purchased  with  toilsome  discretion, 
and  carried  in  its  own  strong  case  and  pocket.  Thoreau  named 
all  the  birds  without  a  gun,  a  weapon  he  never  used  in  ma 
ture  years.  He  neither  killed  nor  imprisoned  any  animal,  unless 
driven  by  acute  needs.  He  brought  home  a  flying  squirrel,  to 
study  its  mode  of  flight,  but  quickly  carried  it  back  to  the  wood. 
1  An  entomologist  of  seventy  years  ago,  who  ' '  collected  "  near  Curzon's  Mill. 

[265] 


THOREAU 

He  possessed  true  instincts  of  topography,  and  could  con 
ceal  choice  things  in  the  brush  and  find  them  again;  unlike 
Gall,  who  commonly  lost  his  locality  and  himself,  as  he  tells 
us,  when  in  the  wood,  master  as  he  was  in  playing  on  the 
organ.  If  he  needed  a  box  on  his  walk,  he  would  strip  a  piece 
of  birch-bark  off  the  tree,  fold  it  when  cut  straightly  to 
gether,  and  put  his  tender  lichen  or  brittle  creature  therein. 
In  those  irritable  thunderclaps  which  come,  he  says,  "with 
tender,  graceful  violence,"  he  sometimes  erected  a  transitory 
house  by  means  of  his  pocket-knife;  where  he  sat,  pleased  with 
"the  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves,"  not  questioning  the 
love  of  electricity  for  trees.  If  out  on  the  river,  haul  up  your 
boat,  turn  it  upside-down,  and  yourself  under  it.  Once  he 
was  thus  doubled  up,  when  Jove  let  drop  a  pattern  thunder 
bolt  in  the  river  in  front  of  his  boat,  while  he  whistled  a 
lively  air  as  accompaniment.  This  is  noted,  as  he  was  much 
distressed  by  storms  when  young,  and  used  to  go  whining  to 
his  father's  room,  and  say,  "I  don't  feel  well,"  and  then  take 
shelter  in  the  paternal  arms,  where  his  health  improved. 

"His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 
The  lively  image  of  his  father's  face." 

While  walking  in  the  woods,  he  delighted  to  give  the  fall 
ing  leaves  as  much  noise  and  rustle  as  he  could,  all  the  while 
singing  some  cheerful  stave;  thus  celebrating  the  pedestrian's 
service  to  Pan  as  well  as  to  the  nymphs  and  dryads,  who  never 
live  in  a  dumb  asylum. 

[  266  ] 


PERSONALITIES 

"The  squirrel  chatters  merrily, 

The  nut  falls  ripe  and  brown, 
And,  gem-like,  from  the  jewelled  tree 

The  leaf  comes  fluttering  down  ; 
And,  restless  in  his  plumage  gay, 
From  bush  to  bush  loud  screams  the  jay." 

STREET. 

Nothing  pleased  him  better  than  our  native  vintage  days, 
when  the  border  of  our  meadows  becomes  a  rich  plantation, 
whose  gathering  has  been  thus  described: — 

WILD    GRAPESi 

"Bring  me  some  grapes,"  she  cried,  "some  clusters  bring, 
Herbert!  with  large  flat  leaves,  the  purple  founts." 
Then  answering  he,  —  "  Ellen,  if  in  the  days 
When  on  the  river's  bank  hang  ripely  o'er 
The  tempting  bunches  red,  and  fragrance  fills 
The  clear  September  air,  if  then"  —  "Ah  !  then," 
Broke  in  the  girl,  —  "then"- 

September  coming, 

Herbert,  the  day  of  all  those  sun-spoiled  days 
Quite  petted  by  him  most,  wishing  to  choose, 
Alone  set  off  for  the  familiar  bank 
Of  the  blue  river,  nor  to  Ellen  spake ; 
That  thing  of  moods  long  since  forgetting  all 
Request  or  promise  floating  o'er  the  year. 
On  his  right  arm  a  white  ash  basket  swung, 
Its  depth  a  promise  of  its  coming  stores ; 
While  the  fair  boy,  o'ertaking  in  his  thought 

1  By  Channing. 

[  267  ] 


THOREAU 

Those  tinted  bubbles,  the  best  lover's  game, 
Sped  joyous  on  through  the  clear  mellowing  day. 
At  length  he  passed  Fairhaven's  cliff,  whose  front 
Shuts  in  a  curve  of  shore,  and  soon  he  sees 
The  harvest-laden  vine. 

Large  hopes  were  his, 
And  with  a  bounding  step  he  leaped  along 
O'er  the  close  cranberry-beds,  his  trusty  foot 
Oft  lighting  on  the  high  elastic  tufts 
Of  the  promiscuous  sedge.  Alas,  for  hope! 
For  some  deliberate  hand  those  vines  had  picked 
By  most  subtracting  rule!  yet  on  the  youth 
More  eager  sprang,  dreaming  of  prizes  rare. 
To  the  blue  river's  floor  fell  the  green  marsh, 
And  a  white  mountain  cloud-range  slowly  touched 
The  infinite  zenith  of  September's  heaven. 
"I  have  you  now!"  cried  Herbert,  tearing  through 
The  envious  thorny  thicket  to  the  vines, 
Crushing  the  alder  sticks,  where  rustling  leaves 
Conceal  the  rolling  stones  and  wild-rose  stems, 
And  always  in  the  cynic  cat-briar  pricked. 
"I  have  you  now!" 

And  rarely  on  the  scope 
Of  bold  adventurer,  British  or  Spaniard, 
Loomed  Indian  coasts,  till  then  a  poet's  dream, 
More  glad  to  them  than  this  Etruscan  vase 
On  his  rash  eyes,  reward  of  hope  deferred. 
There  swum  before  him  in  the  magic  veil 
Of  that  soft  shimmering  autumn  afternoon, 
On  the  black  speckled  alders,  on  the  ground, 
On  leaf  and  pebble  flat  or  round,  the  light 

[  268  ] 


PERSONALITIES 

Of  purple  grapes,  purple  or  faintly  bloomed, 

And  a  few  saintly  bunches  Muscat-white ! 

Nor  Herbert  paused,  nor  looked  at  half  his  wealth, 

As  in  his  wild  delight  he  grasped  a  bunch, 

And  till  his  fingers  burst  still  grasped  a  bunch, 

Heaping  the  great  ash  basket  till  its  cave 

No  further  globe  could  hold.  And  then  he  stopped, 

And  from  a  shrivelled  stub  picked  off  three  grapes, 

Those  which  he  ate. 

'T  is  right  he  wreathe  about 
This  heaped  and  purple  spoil  that  he  has  robbed 
Those  fresh  unfrosted  leaves,  green  in  the  shade, 
And  then  he  weighs  upon  his  hand  the  prize, 
And  springs, — the  Atlas  on  his  nervous  arm. 
Now  buried  'neath  the  basket  Herbert  sunk, 
Or  seemed,  and  showers  of  drops  tickled  his  cheeks, 
Yet  with  inhuman  nerve  he  struggles  on. 
At  times  the  boy,  half  fainting  in  his  march, 
Saw  twirl  in  coils  the  river  at  his  feet, 
Reflecting  madly  the  still  woods  and  hills, 
The  quiet  cattle  painted  on  the  pool 
In  far-off  pastures,  and  the  musing  clouds 
That  scarcely  sailed,  or  seemed  to  sail,  at  all. 
Till  the  strong  shadows  soothed  the  ruby  trees 
To  one  autumnal  black,  how  hot  the  toil,  — 
With  glowing  cheeks  coursed  by  the  exacted  tide, 
Aching,  yet  eager,  resolute  to  win, 
Nor  leave  a  berry  though  his  shoulder  snap. 

Within  the  well-known  door  his  tribute  placed, 

A  fragrance  of  Italian  vineyards  leagued 

The  dear  New  English  farmhouse  with  sweet  shores 

[  269  ] 


THOREAU 

In  spicy  archipelagoes  of  gold. 

Where  the  sun  cannot  set,  but  fades  to  moonlight, 

And  tall  maids  support  amphoras  on  their  brows. 

And  Ellen  ran,  all  Hebe,  down  the  stair 

Almost  at  one  long  step,  while  the  youth  still  stood, 

And  wonder-stricken  how  he  reached  that  door, 

She  cried,  "Dear  mother,  fly  and  see  this  world  of  grapes." 

Then  Herbert  puffed  two  seconds,  and  went  in. 

Much  fresh  enjoyment  Thoreau  would  have  felt  in  the 
observing  wisdom  of  that  admirably  endowed  flower-writer, 
Annie  S.  Downs,1  a  child  of  Concord  (the  naturalist's  heaven), 
full  of  useful  knowledge,  and  with  an  out-of-doors  heart  like 
his;  a  constant  friend  to  flowers,  ferns,  and  mosses,  with  an 
affectionate  sympathy,  and  a  taste  fine  and  unerring,  reflected 
by  the  exquisite  beings  she  justly  celebrates.  Must  she  not 
possess  a  portion  of  the  snowdrop's  prophecy  herself  as  to  her 
writings  and  this  world's  winter?  when  she  says:  — 

"The  tender  Snowdrop,  erect  and  brave, 

Gayly  sprang  from  her  snow-strewn  bed. 
She  doubted  not  there  was  sunshine  warm 

To  welcome  her  shrinking  head ; 
The  graceful  curves  of  her  slender  stem, 

The  sheen  of  her  petals  white, 
As  looking  across  the  bank  of  snow 

She  shone  like  a  gleam  of  light." 

Annie  Downs  and  Alfred  B.  Street  were  native  American 
writers  in  the  original  packages,  not  extended  by  the  critics, 

1  She  died  in  1901,  a  few  months  earlier  than  Channing. 

[  270  ] 


PERSONALITIES 

— writers,  under  the  providence  of  God,  to  be  a  blessing  to 
those  who  love  His  works,  like  Thoreau ! 

Thoreau's  view  of  a  future  world  and  its  rewards  and  pun 
ishments  was  peculiar  to  himself,  and  was  seldom  very  clearly 
expressed ;  yet  he  did  not  bite  at  a  clergyman's  skilfully  baited 
hook  of  immortality,  of  which,  he  said,  could  be  no  doubt. 
He  spoke  of  the  reserved  meaning  in  the  insect  metamor 
phosis  of  the  moth,  painted  like  the  summer  sunrise,  that 
makes  its  escape  from  a  loathsome  worm,  and  cheats  the  win 
try  shroud,  its  chrysalis.  One  sweet  hour  of  spring,  gazing 
into  a  grassy-bottomed  pool,  where  the  insect  youth  were 
disporting,  the  gyrince  (boat  flies)  darting,  and  tadpoles  be 
ginning,  like  magazine  writers,  to  drop  their  tails,  he  said: 
"Yes,  I  feel  positive  beyond  a  doubt,  I  must  pass  through  all 
these  conditions,  one  day  and  another;  I  must  go  the  whole 
round  of  life,  and  come  full  circle." 

If  he  had  reason  to  borrow  an  axe  or  plane,  his  habit  was 
to  return  it  more  sharply.  In  a  walk,  his  companion,  a  citi 
zen,  said,  "I  do  not  see  where  you  find  your  Indian  arrow 
heads."  Stooping  to  the  ground,  Henry  picked  one  up,  and 
presented  it  to  him,  crying,  "Here  is  one."  After  reading  and 
dreaming,  on  the  Truro  shore,  about  the  deeds  of  Captain 
Kidd  and  wrecks  of  old  pirate  ships,  he  walked  out  after  din 
ner  on  the  beach,  and  found  a  five-franc  piece  of  old  France, 
saying,  "I  thought  it  was  a  button,  it  was  so  black;  but  it  is 
cob-money"  (the  name  given  there  to  stolen  treasure).  He  said 
of  early  New  English  writers,  like  old  Josselyn,  "They  give 
you  one  piece  of  nature,  at  any  rate,  and  that  is  themselves, 

[271  ] 


THOREAU 

smacking  their  lips  like  a  coach- whip, — none  of  those  emas 
culated  modern  histories,  such  as  Prescott's,  cursed  with  a 
style." 

"  As  dead  low  earth  eclipses  and  controls 
The  quick  high  moon,  so  doth  the  body  souls." 

His  titles,  if  given  by  himself,  are  descriptive  enough.  His 
"Week,"  with  its  chapters  of  days,  is  agglutinative,  and  chains 
the  whole  agreeably  in  one, — 

"Much  like  the  corals  which  thy  wrist  enfold, 
Laced  up  together  in  congruity." 

"Autumnal  Tints"  and  "Wild  Apples'"  are  fair  country 
invitations  to  a  hospitable  house:  the  platter  adapts  itself  to 
its  red-cheeked  shining  fruit.  In  his  volume  called  (without 
his  sensitiveness)  "Excursions,"  the  contents  look  like  essays, 
but  are  really  descriptions  drawn  from  his  journals.  Thoreau, 
unlike  some  of  his  neighbors,  could  not  mosaic  an  essay;  but 
he  loved  to  tell  a  good  story.  He  lacked  the  starch  and  buck 
ram  that  vamps  the  Addison  and  Johnson  mimes.  His  letters 
— of  which  most  have  now  been  printed — are  abominably 
didactic,  fitted  to  deepen  the  heroic  drain.  He  wasted  none 
of  those  precious  jewels,  his  moments,  upon  epistles  to  Rosa 
Matilda  invalids,  some  of  whom,  like  leeches,  fastened  upon 
his  horny  cuticle,  but  did  not  draw.  Of  this  gilt  vermoulu, 
the  sugar-gingerbread  of  Sympathy,  Hawthorne  had  as  much. 
There  was  a  blank  simper,  an  insufficient  sort  of  affliction,  at 
your  petted  sorrow,  in  the  story-teller, — more  consoling  than 
the  boiled  maccaroni  of  pathos.  Hawthorne — swallowed  up 


PERSONALITIES 

in  the  wretchedness  of  life,  in  that  sardonic  puritan  element 
that  drips  from  the  elms  of  his  birthplace — thought  it  inex 
pressibly  ridiculous  that  any  one  should  notice  man^s  miseries, 
these  being  his  staple  product.  Thoreau  looked  upon  it  as 
equally  nonsense,  because  men  had  no  miseries  at  all  except 
those  of  indigestion  and  laziness,  manufactured  to  their  own 
order.  The  writer  of  fiction  could  not  read  the  naturalist, 
probably;  and  Thoreau  had  no  more  love  or  sympathy  for 
fiction  in  books  than  in  character.  "Robinson  Crusoe "  and 
"  Sandford  and  Merton,11  it  is  to  be  feared,  were  lost  on  him, 
such  was  his  abhorrence  of  lies.  Yet  in  the  stoical  fond  of 
their  characters  they  were  alike ;  and  it  is  believed  that  Haw 
thorne  truly  admired  Thoreau.  A  vein  of  humor  had  they 
both;  and  when  they  laughed,  like  Shelley,  the  operation 
was  sufficient  to  split  a  pitcher.  Hawthorne  could  have  said: 
"People  live  as  long  in  Pepper  Alley  as  on  Salisbury  Plain; 
and  they  live  so  much  happier  that  an  inhabitant  of  the  first 
would,  if  he  turned  cottager,  starve  his  understanding  for 
want  of  conversation,  and  perish  in  a  state  of  mental  infe 
riority."  Henry  would  never  believe  it. 

As  the  important  consequence  from  his  graduation  at  Har 
vard,  he  urged  upon  that  fading  luminary,  Jared  Sparks,  the 
need  he  had  of  books  in  the  library;  and  by  badgering  got 
them  out.  His  persistence  became  traditional.  His  incarcera 
tion  for  one  night  in  Concord  jail,  because  he  refused  the 
payment  of  his  poll-tax,  is  described  in  his  tract,  "  Civil  Dis 
obedience,11  in  the  volume,  "A  Yankee  in  Canada.11  In  this  is 
his  signing-off:  "I,  H.D.T.,  have  signed  off,  and  do  not  hold 

[  273  ] 


THOREAU 

myself  responsible  to  your  multifarious,  uncivil  chaos,  named 
Civil  Government."  He  seldom  went  to  or  voted  at  a  town 
meeting,  —  the  instrument  for  operating  upon  a  New  Eng 
land  village, — nor  to  "meeting"  or  church;  nor  often  did 
things  he  could  not  understand.  In  these  respects  Hawthorne 
mimicked  him.  The  Concord  novelist  was  a  handsome,  bulky 
character,  with  a  soft  rolling  gait.  A  wit1  said  he  seemed  like 
a  boned  pirate.  Shy  and  awkward,  he  dreaded  the  stranger  in 

<£. 

his  gates;  while,  as  customs-inspector,  he  was  employed  to 
swear  the  oaths  versus  English  colliers.  When  surveyor,  find 
ing  the  rum  sent  to  the  African  coast  was  watered,  he  vowed 
he  would  not  ship  another  gill  if  it  was  anything  but  pure 
proof  spirit.  Such  was  his  justice  to  the  oppressed.  One  of 
the  things  he  most  dreaded  was  to  be  looked  at  after  he  was 
dead.  Being  at  a  friend's  demise,2  of  whose  extinction  he  had 
the  care,  he  enjoyed — as  if  it  had  been  a  scene  in  some  old 
Spanish  novel — his  success  in  keeping  the  waiters  from  steal 
ing  the  costly  wines  sent  in  for  the  sick.  Careless  of  heat  and 
cold  indoors,  he  lived  in  an  ^Eolian-harp  house,  that  could 
not  be  warmed :  that  he  entered  it  by  a  trap-door  from  a  rope- 
ladder  is  false.  Lovely,  amiable,  and  charming,  his  absent- 
mindedness  passed  for  unsocial  when  he  was  hatching  a  new 
tragedy.  As  a  writer,  he  loved  the  morbid  and  the  lame.  The 
"Gentle  Boy"  and  "Scarlet  Letter"  eloped  with  the  girls1 
boarding-schools.  His  reputation  is  master  of  his  literary 
taste.  His  characters  are  not  drawn  from  life;  his  plots  and 
thoughts  are  often  dreary,  as  he  was  himself  in  some  lights. 
1  T.  G.  Appleton.  2  W.  D.  Ticknor,  in  Philadelphia. 
[  274  ] 


PERSONALITIES 

His  favorite  writers  were  "the  English  novelists,"  Boccaccio, 
Horace,  and  Johnson. 

A  few  lines  have  been  given  from  some  of  Thoreau's  ac 
cepted  authors:  he  loved  Homer  for  his  nature;  Virgil  for  his 
finish;  Chaucer  for  his  health;  the  Robin  Hood  Ballads  for 
their  out-door  blooming  life;  Ossian  for  his  grandeur;  Persius 
for  his  crabbed  philosophy;  Milton  for  his  neatness  and  swing. 
He  never  loved,  nor  did,  anything  but  what  was  good,  yet  he 
sometimes  got  no  bargain  in  buying  books,  as  in  "Wright's 
Provincial  Dictionary  " ;  but  he  prized  "  London's  Arboretum," 
of  which,  after  thinking  of  its  purchase  and  saving  up  the 
money  for  years,  he  became  master.  It  was  an  affair  with  him 
to  dispense  his  hardly  earned  pistareen.  He  lacked  the  sus 
picious  generosity,  the  disguise  of  egoism :  on  him  peeling  or 
appealing  was  wasted;  he  was  as  close  to  his  aim  as  the  bark 
on  a  tree.  "Virtue  is  its  own  reward,"  "A  fool  and  his  money 
are  soon  parted."  His  property  was  packed  like  seeds  in  a 
sunflower.  There  was  not  much  of  it,  but  that  remained.  He 
had  not  the  "mirage  of  sympathies,"  such  as  Gortchakoff  de 
scribes  as  wasted  upon  bare  Poles.  He  squeezed  the  sandbanks 
of  the  Marlboro'  road  with  the  soles  of  his  feet  to  obtain 
relief  for  his  head,  but  did  not  throw  away  upon  unskilled 
idleness  his  wage  of  living.  No  one  was  freer  of  his  means  in 
what  he  thought  a  good  cause.  "His  principal  and  primary 
business  was  to  be  a  poet :  he  was  a  natural  man  without  de 
sign,  who  spoke  what  he  thought,  and  just  as  he  thought  it." 
Antiquities,  Montfaucon,  or  Grose,  trifles  instead  of  value, 
dead  men's  shoes  or  fancies,  he  laid  not  up.  At  Walden  he 

[275] 


THOREAU 

flung  out  of  the  window  his  only  ornament,  —  a  paper  weight, 
—because  it  needed  dusting.  At  a  city  eating-house  his  usual 
order  was  "boiled  apple11  (a  manual  of  alum  with  shortening), 
seduced  by  its  title.  He  could  spoil  an  hour  and  the  shop 
man's  patience  in  his  search  after  a  knife,  never  buying  till 
he  got  the  short,  stout  blade  with  the  like  handle.  He  tied 
his  shoes  in  a  hard  loverVknot,  and  was  intensely  nice  in  his 

personal,  — 

"  Life  without  thee  is  loose  and  spills." 

He  faintly  piqued  his  curiosity  with  pithy  bon-mots,  such 
as :  "  Cows  in  the  pasture  are  good  milkers.  You  cannot  travel 
four  roads  at  one  time.  If  you  wish  the  meat,  crack  the  nut. 
If  it  does  not  happen  soon,  it  will  late.  Take  time  as  it  comes, 
people  for  what  they  are  worth,  and  money  for  what  it  buys. 
As  the  bill,  so  goes  the  song;  as  the  bird,  such  the  nest.  Time 
runs  before  men.  A  good  dog  never  finds  good  bones.  Cherries 
taste  sour  to  single  birds.  No  black  milk,  no  white  crows. 
Foul  weather  and  false  women  are  always  expected.  Occasion 
wears  front-hair.  No  fish,  fresh  nor  salt,  when  a  fool  holds 
the  line.  A  poor  man's  cow — a  rich  man's  child — dies.  Sleep 
is  half  a  dinner.  A  wit  sleeps  in  the  middle  of  a  narrow  bed. 
Good  heart,  weak  head.  Cocks  crow  as  fortune  brightens.  A 
fool  is  always  starting.  At  a  small  spring  you  can  drink  at 
your  ease.  Fire  is  like  an  old  maid,  the  best  company.  Long 
talk  and  little  time.  Better  days,  a  bankrupt's  purchase.  What 
men  do,  not  what  they  promise." 

"The  poor  man's  childe  invited  was  to  dine, 
With  flesh  of  oxen,  sheep,  and  fatted  swine, 

[  276  ] 


PERSONALITIES 

(Far  better  cheer  than  he  at  home  could  finde,) 
And  yet  this  childe  to  stay  had  little  minde. 
You  have,  quoth  he,  no  apple,  froise,  nor  pie, 

Stew'd  pears,  with  bread  and  milk  and  walnuts  by." 

HALL. 

As  the  early  morning  represented  to  him  the  spring  of  the 
day,  so  did  March  and  April  and  May  ever  renew  in  him  his 
never-changing,  undying  faith  in  a  new  life  for  all  things. 
"You  must  take  the  first  glass  of  the  day's  nectar,1''  he  says, 
"  if  you  would  get  all  the  spirit  of  it,  before  its  fixed  air  be 
gins  to  stir  and  escape."  Thus  he  rejoiced  greatly  in  the 
spring-song  of  birds, — the  songs  of  our  familiar  blackbird, 

"That  comes  before  the  swallow  dares," 

and  picks  the  alder  catkins  and  the  drift  along  the  river-shore. 
The  birds  cheered  him,  too,  in  the  solitudes  of  winter,  when 
the  deep  snows  line  the  woods,  and  one  needs  not  only  warm 
boots,  but  a  warm  heart  to  tread  rejoicingly  their  congelated 
vicissitudes.  These  little  things — these  (to  some)  trivial  expe 
riences — were  to  him  lofty  and  ennobling, — raised  by  his  ele 
vation  of  thought  and  subtlety  of  spirit  into  intellectual  glory. 
Really,  his  life  and  its  surroundings  were  one  grand  whole. 
If  he  carefully  noted  what  came  in  the  seasons,  he  no  less 
loved  the  seasons  themselves  in  their  full  quartette.  He  was 
of  too  catholic  a  temperament  not  to  love  them  all  for  what 
they  brought.  November  was  the  month  which  impressed  him 
as  the  hardest  to  front;  or,  as  he  phrased  it,  —  "In  November 
a  man  will  eat  his  heart,  if  in  any  month."  His  seriousness 
and  his  fortitude  were  native, — and  he  paddled  his  boat  up 

[  277  ] 


THOREAU 

and  down  the  river  into  December,  when  the  drops  froze  on 
the  blade;  singing  some  cheery  song,  rejoicing  with  the  musk- 
rats,  and  listening  to  the  icicles  as  they  jarred  against  the 
stems  of  the  button-bushes.  Yet  certainly  this  inward  cheer, 
which  surpassed  the  elements,  grew  out  of  no  insensibility. 

Originalities  in  the  individual  bear  the  impress  of  egotism, 
because  they  differ  from  the  action  of  the  mass;  but  we  must  dis 
tinguish  a  true  and  worthy  egotism  from  that  captious  vanity 
which  sets  itself  above  all  other  values,  merely  because  really 
worthless.  Our  genius  once  said,  "It  is  as  sweet  ax  mystery  to 
me  as  ever  what  this  world  is."  Such  is  not  the  utterance  of 
the  egotist,  but  of  a  free  and  healthy  man,  living  and  looking 
for  social  and  natural  responses.  If  he  passed  over  some  things 
that  others  insist  on,  it  was  because  his  time  and  means  were 
fully  occupied  with  other  matters, — his  capital  invested  else 
where.  To  one  (Cholmondeley)  who  wished  to  get  his  opinion 
upon  some  theories  connected  with  original  sin  and  future 
punishment,  he  replied,  "Those  voluntaries  I  did  not  take," 
— a  term  for  certain  studies  at  the  pleasure  of  the  student  in 
Harvard  College.  (What  are  since  called  "electives.")  To  use 
his  words  elsewhere,  "Life  is  not  long  enough  for  one  man." 

The  result  of  his  plan  of  life,  whether  conscious  or  not,  was 
joy, — the  joy  of  the  universe,  —  and  kindness  and  industry. 
As  he  declares  of  the  strawberry, —  "It  is  natural  that  the 
first  fruit  which  the  earth  bears  should  emit  (and  be,  as  it 
were,  an  embodiment  of)  that  vernal  fragrance  with  which  the 
air  has  teemed," — so  he  represented  the  purity  and  sweetness 
of  youth,  which  in  him  never  grew  old. 

[  278  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 


"At  length  I  hailed  him,  seeing  that  his  hat 
Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  if  the  brim1 
Had  newly  scooped  a  running  stream." 

WORDSWORTH  . 

"I,  to  my  soft  still  walk." 

DONNE. 

"Scire  est  nescire,  nisi  id  me  scire  alms  scierit." 

LUCILIUS. 

"Unus  homo,  nullus  homo." 

THEMISTIUS. 

"What  beauty  would  have  lovely  styled; 
What  manners  pretty,  nature  mild, 
What  wonder  perfect,  all  were  fil'd 
Upon  record  in  this  blest  child." 

BEN  JONSON. 


1  One  of  Bewick's  vignettes  pictures  Mm  drinking  from  his  hat's  brim.  W.  E.  C. 


CHAPTER     XIV 
FIELD     SPORTS 

As  an  honorary  member,  Thoreau  appertained  to  the  Boston 
Society  of  Natural  History,  adding  to  its  reports,  besides  com 
paring  notes  with  the  care-takers  or  curators  of  the  mise  en 
scene.  To  this  body  he  left  his  collections  of  plants,  Indian 
tools,  and  the  like.  His  latest  traffic  with  it  refers  to  the  num 
ber  of  bars  or  fins  upon  a  pike,  which  had  more  or  less  than 
was  decent.  He  sat  upon  his  eggs  with  theirs.  His  city  visit 
was  to  their  books,  and  there  he  made  his  call,  not  upon  the 
swift  ladies  of  Spruce  Street;  and  more  than  once  he  entered 
by  the  window  before  the  janitor  had  digested  his  omelet, — 

" How  kind  is  Heaven  to  men!"  y 

When  he  found  a  wonder,  he  sent  it,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
ne  plus  ultra  balls  from  Flint's  Pond,  in  Lincoln,  made  of 
grass,  reeds,  and  leaves,  triturated  by  washing  upon  the  sandy 
beach,  and  rolled  into  polished  reddish  globes,  about  the  big 
ness  of  an  orange.  A  new  species  of  mouse,  three  Blanding 
cistudas,  and  several  box-turtles  (rare  here)  were  among  his 
prizes.  Of  the  Cistuda  Blandingii,  the  herpetologist  Holbrook 
says  that  its  sole  locality  is  the  Illinois  and  Wisconsin  prairies, 
and  the  one  he  saw  came  from  the  Fox  River. 

"Striving  to  save  the  whole,  by  parcells  die." 

On  the  Andromeda  Ponds,  between  Walden  and  Fairhaven,  he 
found  the  red  snow;  for  things  tropic  or  polar  can  be  found 

[281  ] 


THOREAU 

if  looked  for.  "  There  is  no  power  to  see  in  the  eye  itself,  any 
more  than  in  any  other  jelly:  we  cannot  see  anything  till 
we  are  possessed  with  the  idea  of  it.  The  sportsman  had  the 
meadow-hens  half-way  into  his  bag  when  he  started,  and  has 
only  to  shove  them  down.  First,  the  idea  or  image  of  a  plant 
occupies  my  thoughts,  and  at  length  I  surely  see  it,  though  it 
may  seem  as  foreign  to  this  locality  as  Hudson's  Bay  is."  His 
docility  was  great,  and  as  the  newest  botanies  changed  the 
name  of  Andromeda  to  Cassandra,  he  accepted  it,  and  became 
an  accomplice  to  this  tragic  deed.  Macbeth  and  Catiline  are 
spared  for  the  roses.  His  annual  interest  was  paid,  his  banks 
did  not  fail;  the  lampreys'  nests  on  the  river  yet  survive, 
built  of  small  stones  and  sometimes  two  feet  high.  It  is  of 
this  petromyzon  our  fishermen  have  the  funereal  idea  (as  they 
are  never  seen  coming  back  after  going  up  stream)  that  they 
all  die.  The  dead  suckers  seen  floating  in  the  river  each  spring 
inspired  his  muse.  He  admired  the  otters1  tracks,  the  remains 
of  their  scaly  dinners,  and  the  places  on  the  river  where  they 
amused  themselves  sliding  like  boys.  He  had  chased  and 
caught  woodchucks,  but  failed  in  this  experiment  on  a  fox; 
and  caught,  instead  of  him,  a  bronchial  cold  that  did  him 
great  harm.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  examining  the  squirrels' 
nests  in  the  trees:  the  gray  makes  his  of  leaves;  the  red,  of 
grass  and  fibres  of  bark.  He  climbed  successively  four  pines 
after  hawks'  nests,  and  was  "much  stuck  up";  and  once  he 
gathered  the  brilliant  flowers  of  the  white-pine  from  the  very 
tops  of  the  tallest  pines,  when  he  was  pitched  on  the  highest 
scale.  Being  strained,  by  such  imprudent  exertion,  and  by  that 

[  282  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 

of  wheeling  heavy  loads  of  driftwood,  he  impaired  his  health, 
always  doing  ideal  work.  Fishes1  nests  and  spawn — more  es 
pecially  of  the  horn-pout  and  bream — he  often  studied;  and 
he  carried  to  the  entomologist  Harris  the  first  lively  snow- 
flea  he  enjoyed. 

"In  earth's  wide  thoroughfare  below, 
Two  only  men  contented  go, — 
Who  knows  what 's  right  and  what 's  forbid, 
And  he  from  whom  is  knowledge  hid." 

EMERSON. 

Turtles  were  his  pride  and  consolation.  He  piloted  a  snap- 
ping-turtle,  Emysaurus  serpentina,  to  his  house  from  the  river, 
that  could  easily  carry  him  on  his  back;  and  would  sometimes 
hatch  a  brood  of  these  Herculean  monsters  in  his  yard.  They 
waited  for  information,  or  listened  to  their  instinct,  before 
setting  off  for  the  water.  "If  Iliads  are  not  composed  in  our 
day,  the  snapping-turtle  is  hatched  and  arrives  at  maturity. 
It  already  thrusts  forth  its  tremendous  head  for  the  first  time 
in  this  sphere,  and  slowly  moves  from  side  to  side,  opening  its 
small  glistening  eyes  for  the  first  time  to  the  light,  expressive 
of  dull  rage,  as  if  it  had  endured  the  trials  of  this  world  for  a 
century.  They  not  only  live  after  they  are  dead,  but  begin  to 
live  before  they  are  alive.  When  I  behold  this  monster  thus 
steadily  advancing  to  maturity,  all  nature  abetting,  I  am  con 
vinced  that  there  must  be  an  irresistible  necessity  for  mud- 
turtles.  With  what  unshaking  tenacity  Nature  sticks  to  one 
idea !  These  eggs,  not  warm  to  the  touch,  buried  in  the  ground, 
so  slow  to  hatch,  are  like  the  seeds  of  vegetable  life.  I  am  af- 

[  283  ] 


THOREAU 

fected  by  the  thought  that  the  earth  nurses  these  eggs.  They 
are  planted  in  the  earth,  and  the  earth  takes  care  of  them; 
she  is  genial  to  them,  and  does  not  kill  them.  This  mother  is 
not  merely  inanimate  and  inorganic.  Though  the  immediate 
mother-turtle  abandons  her  offspring,  the  earth  and  sun  are 
kind  to  them.  The  old  turtle,  on  which  the  earth  rests,  takes 
care  of  them,  while  the  other  waddles  off.  Earth  was  not  made 
poisonous  and  deadly  to  them.  The  earth  has  some  virtue  in 
it:  when  seeds  are  put  into  it,  they  germinate;  when  turtles' 
eggs,  they  hatch  in  due  time.  Though  the  mother-turtle  re 
mained  and  boarded  them,  it  would  still  be  the  universal 
World-turtle  which,  through  her,  cared  for  them  as  now. 
Thus  the  earth  is  the  maker  of  all  creatures.  Talk  of  Hercules, 
—his  feats  in  the  cradle!  what  kind  of  nursery  has  this  one 

had?" 

"Life  lock't  in  death,  heav'n  in  a  shell." 

The  wood-tortoise,  Emys  msculpta,  was  another  annual 
favorite.  It  is  heard  in  early  spring,  after  the  mud  from  the 
freshets  has  dried  on  the  fallen  leaves  in  swamps  that  border 
the  stream,  slowly  rustling  the  leaves  in  its  cautious  advances, 
and  then  mysteriously  tumbling  down  the  steep  bank  into 
the  river, — a  slightly  startling  operation.  He  patiently  specu 
lates  upon  its  shingled,  pectinately  engraved  roof  or  back, 
and  its  perennial  secrets  in  indelible  hierogram.  The  mud- 
turtle,  he  thought,  only  gained  its  peculiar  odors  after  spring 
had  come,  like  other  flowers;  and  he  alludes  to  the  high- 
backed,  elliptical  shell  of  the  stink-pot  covered  with  leeches. 
Of  the  trim  painted  tortoise  he  asks:  "He  who  painted  the 

[  284  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 

tortoise  thus,  what  were  his  designs?"  "The  gold -bead  turtle 
glides  anxiously  amid  the  spreading  calla-leaves  near  the  warm 
depths  of  the  black  brook.  I  have  seen  signs  of  spring :  I  have 
seen  a  frog  swiftly  sinking  in  a  pool,  or  where  he  dimpled  the 
surface  as  he  leapt  in;  I  have  seen  the  brilliant  spots  of  the 
tortoises  stirring  at  the  bottom  of  ditches;  I  have  seen  the  clear 
sap  trickling  from  the  red  maple.  The  first  pleasant  days  of 
spring  come  out  like  a  squirrel,  and  go  in  again.  I  do  not 
know  at  first  what  charms  me." 

THE    COMING    OF    SPRINGi 

With  the  red  leaves  its  floor  was  carpeted,  — 
Floor  of  that  Forest-brook  across  whose  weeds 
A  trembling  tree  was  thrown, — those  leaves  so  red 
Shed  from  the  grassy  bank  when  Autumn  bleeds 
In  all  the  maples ;  here  the  Spring  first  feeds 
Her  pulsing  heart  with  the  specked  turtle's  gold, 
Half-seen  emerging  from  the  last  year's  reeds,  — 
Spring  that  is  joyous  and  grows  never  old, 
Soft  in  aerial  hope,  sweet,  and  yet  well  controlled. 

Gently  the  bluebird  warbled  his  sad  song, 
Shrill  came  the  robin's  whistle  from  the  hill, 
The  sparrows  twittering  all  the  hedge  along, 
While  darting  trout  clouded  the  reed-born  rill, 
And  generous  elm-trees  budded  o'er  the  mill, 
Weaving  a  flower- wreath  on  the  fragrant  air ; 
And  the  soft-moving  skies  seemed  never  still, 
And  all  was  calm  with  peace  and  void  from  care, 
Both  heaven  and  earth,  and  life  and  all  things  there. 
1  By  Channing. 

[  285  ] 


THOREAU 

The  early  willows  launched  their  catkins  forth 
To  catch  the  first  kind  glances  of  the  sun, 
Their  larger  brethren  smiled  with  golden  mirth, 
And  alder  tassels  dropt,  and  birches  spun 
Their  glittering  rings,  and  maple  buds  begun 
To  cloud  again  their  rubies  down  the  glen, 
And  diving  ducks  shook  sparkling  in  the  run, 
While  in  the  old  year's  leaves  the  tiny  wren 
Peeped  at  the  tiny  titmouse,  come  to  life  again. 

Frogs  held  his  contrite  admiration.  "The  same  starry 
geometry  looks  down  on  their  active  and  their  torpid  state." 
The  little  peeping  hyla  winds  his  shrill,  mellow,  miniature 
flageolet  in  the  warm  overflowed  pools,  and  suggests  to  him 
this  stupendous  image:  "It  was  like  the  light  reflected  from 
the  mountain  ridges,  within  the  shaded  portion  of  the  moon, 
forerunner  and  herald  of  the  spring."  He  made  a  regular 
business  of  studying  frogs, — waded  for  them  with  freezing 
calves  in  the  early  freshet,  caught  them,  and  carried  them 
home  to  hear  their  sage  songs.  "I  paddle  up  the  river  to  see 
the  moonlight  and  hear  the  bull-frog."  He  loved  to  be  pres 
ent  at  the  instant  when  the  springing  grass  at  the  bottoms 
of  ditches  lifts  its  spear  above  the  surface  and  bathes  in  the 
spring  air.  "The  grass-green  tufts  at  the  spring  were  like  a 
green  fire.  Then  the  willow-catkins  looked  like  small  pearl 
buttons  on  a  waistcoat.  The  bluebird  is  like  a  speck  of  clear 
blue  sky  seen  near  the  end  of  a  storm,  reminding  us  of  an 
ethereal  region  and  a  heaven  which  we  had  forgotten.  With 
his  warble  he  drills  the  ice,  and  his  little  rill  of  melody  flows  a 
short  way  down  the  concave  of  the  sky.  The  sharp  whistle  of 

[  286  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 

the  blackbird,  too,  is  heard,  like  single  sparks;  or  a  shower 
of  them,  shot  up  from  the  swamp,  and  seen  against  the  dark 
winter  in  the  rear.  Here,  again,  in  the  flight  of  the  goldfinch, 
in  its  ricochet  motion,  is  that  undulation  observed  in  so 
many  materials,  as  in  the  mackerel-sky."11  He  doubts  if  the 
season  will  be  long  enough  for  such  oriental  and  luxurious 
slowness  as  the  croaking  of  the  first  wood-frog  implies.  Ah, 
how  weatherwise  he  must  be!  Now  he  loses  sight  completely 
of  those  November  days,  in  which  you  must  hold  on  to  life 
by  your  teeth.  About  May  22,  he  hears  the  willowy  music 
of  frogs,  and  notices  the  pads  on  the  river,  with  often  a  scol 
loped  edge  like  those  tin  platters  on  which  country  people 
bake  "turnovers.""  The  earth  is  all  fragrant  as  one  flower, 
and  life  perfectly  fresh  and  uncankered.  He  says  of  the  wood- 
frog,  Rana  sylvatica:  "It  had  four  or  five  dusky  bars,  which 
matched  exactly  when  the  legs  were  folded,  showing  that  the 
painter  applied  his  brush  to  the  animal  when  in  that  posi 
tion."  The  leopard-frog,  the  marsh-frog,  the  bull -frog,  and 
that  best  of  all  earthly  singers,  the  toad,  he  never  could  do 
enough  for.  It  was,  he  says,  a  great  discovery,  when  first  he 
found  the  ineffable  trilling  concerto  of  early  summer,  after 
sunset,  was  arranged  by  the  toads, — when  the  very  earth  seems 
to  steam  with  the  sound.  He  makes  up  his  mind  reluctantly, 
as  if  somebody  had  blundered  about  that  time.  "It  would 
seem  then  that  snakes  undertake  to  swallow  toads  that  are 
too  big  for  them.  I  saw  a  snake  by  the  roadside,  and  touched 
him  with  my  foot  to  see  if  he  were  dead.  He  had  a  toad  in  his 
jaws  which  he  was  preparing  to  swallow,  with  the  latter  dis- 

[287] 


THOREAU 

tended  to  three  times  his  width ;  but  he  relinquished  his  prey, 
and  fled.  And  I  thought,  as  the  toad  jumped  leisurely  away, 
with  his  slime-covered  hind-quarters  glistening  in  the  sun  (as 
if  I,  his  deliverer,  wished  to  interrupt  his  meditations),  without 
a  shriek  or  fainting, — I  thought,  'What  a  healthy  indiffer 
ence  is  manifested ! "Is  not  this  the  broad  earth  still ?'  he  said." 
He  thinks  the  yellow,  swelling  throat  of  the  bull-frog  comes 
with  the  water-lilies.  It  is  of  this  faultless  singer  the  good 
young  English  lord  courteously  asked,  on  hearing  it  warble 
in  the  Concord  marsh  one  day,  "What  Birds  are  those?11 

"Dear,  harmless  age!  the  short,  swift  span, 
When  weeping  virtue  parts  with  man." 

In  Thoreau's  view,  the  squirrel  has  the  key  to  the  pitch- 
pine  cone,  that  conical  and  spiry  nest  of  many  apartments; 
and  he  is  so  pleased  with  the  flat  top  of  the  muskrat's  head 
in  swimming,  and  his  back  even  with  it,  and  the  ludicrous  way 
he  shows  his  curved  tail  when  he  dives,  that  he  cannot  fail  to 
draw  them  on  the  page.  Many  an  hour  he  spent  in  watching 
the  evolutions  of  the  minnows,  and  the  turtle  laying  its  eggs, 
running  his  own  patience  against  that  of  the  shell ;  and  at  last 
concludes  the  stink-pot  laid  its  eggs  in  the  dark,  having 
watched  it  as  long  as  he  could  see  without  their  appearance. 
"As  soon  as  these  reptile  eggs  are  laid,  the  skunk  comes  and 
gobbles  up  the  nest.11  Such  is  a  provision  of  Nature,  who  keeps 
that  universal  eating-house  where  guest,  table,  and  keeper  are 
on  the  bill. 

His  near  relation  to  flowers,  their  importance  in  his  land 
scape  and  his  sensibility  to  their  colors,  have  been  joyfully  re- 

[  288  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 

iterated.  He  criticised  his  floral  children:  "Nature  made  ferns 
for  pure  leaves,  to  show  what  she  could  do  in  that  line.  The 
oaks  are  in  the  gray,  or  a  little  more ;  and  the  deciduous  trees 
invest  the  woods  like  a  permanent  mist.  What  a  glorious  crim 
son  fire  as  you  look  up  to  the  sunlight  through  the  thin  edge 
of  the  scales  of  the  black  spruce !  the  cones  so  intensely  glow 
ing  in  their  cool  green  buds,  while  the  purplish  sterile  blos 
soms  shed  pollen  upon  you.  ...  It  seemed  like  a  fairy  fruit 
as  I  sat  looking  towards  the  sun,  and  saw  the  red  maple-keys, 
made  all  transparent  and  glowing  by  the  sun,  between  me  and 
the  body  of  the  squirrel."  The  excessively  minute  thread-like 
stigmas  of  the  hazel,  seen  against  the  light,  pleased  him  with 
their  ruby  glow,  and  were  almost  as  brilliant  as  the  jewels  of 
an  ice-glaze.  It  is  like  a  crimson  star  first  detected  in  the  twi 
light.  These  facts  and  similar  ones,  observed  afresh  each  year, 
verify  his  criticism,  that  he  observes  with  the  risk  of  endless 
iteration;  he  milks  the  sky  and  the  earth.  He  alludes  to  a  bay- 
berry  bush  without  fruit,  probably  a  male  one, — "it  made  me 
realize  that  this  was  only  a  more  distant  and  elevated  sea- 
beach,  and  that  we  were  within  the  reach  of  marine  influences," 
— and  he  sees  "banks  sugared  with  the  aster  Tradescanti.  I 
am  detained  by  the  very  bright  red  blackberry-leaves  strewn 
along  the  sod,  the  vine  being  inconspicuous, — how  they  spot 
it!  I  can  see  the  anthers  plainly  on  the  great,  rusty,  fusty 
globular  buds  of  the  slippery  elm.  The  leaves  in  July  are 
the  dark  eyelash  of  summer;  in  May  the  houstonias  are  like  a 
sugaring  of  snow.  These  little  timid  wayfaring  flowers  were 
dried  and  eaten  by  the  Indians, — a  delicate  meal, — 

[  289  ] 


THOREAU 

t(  Speechless  and  calm  as  infant's  sleep. 

"The  most  interesting  domes  I  behold  are  not  those  of  ori 
ental  temples  and  palaces,  but  of  the  toadstools.  On  this  knoll 
in  the  swamp  they  are  little  pyramids  of  Cheops  or  Cholula 
(which  also  stand  on  the  plain),  very  delicately  shaded  off. 
They  have  burst  their  brown  tunics  as  they  expanded,  leaving 
only  a  clear  brown  apex;  and  on  every  side  these  swelling 
roofs  or  domes  are  patched  and  shingled  with  the  fragments, 
delicately  shaded  off  thus  into  every  tint  of  brown  to  the  edge, 
as  if  this  creation  of  a  night  would  thus  emulate  the  weather- 
stains  of  centuries;  toads'  temples, — so  charming  is  gradation. 
I  hear  the  steady  (not  intermittent)  shrilling  of  apparently  the 
alder-cricket, — hear  it  but  see  it  not, — clear  and  autumnal,  a 
season  round.  It  reminds  me  of  past  autumns  and  the  lapse  of 
time,  suggests  a  pleasing,  thoughtful  melancholy,  like  the 
sound  of  the  flail.  Such  preparations,  such  an  outfit  has  our  life, 
and  so  little  brought  to  pass.  Having  found  the  Calla  palustris 
in  one  place,  I  soon  found  it  in  another.""  He  notes  the  dark- 
blue  domes  of  the  soap- wort  gentian.  "The  beech-trunks 
impress  you  as  full  of  health  and  vigor,  so  that  the  bark  can 
hardly  contain  their  spirits,  but  lies  in  folds  or  wrinkles  about 
their  ankles  like  a  sock,  with  the  embonpoint  of  infancy, — a 
wrinkle  of  fat.  The  fever-bush  is  betrayed  by  its  little  spherical 
buds,  in  January.  Yellow  is  the  color  of  spring;  red,  that  of 
midsummer :  through  pale  golden  and  green  we  arrive  at  the 
yellow  of  the  buttercup;  through  scarlet  to  the  fiery  July  red, 
the  red  lily."  He  finds  treasures  in  the  golden  basins  of  the  cis- 
tus.  The  water-target  leaves  in  mid-June  at  Walden  are  scored 

[  290  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 

as  by  some  literal  characters.  Some  dewy  cobwebs  arrange 
themselves  before  his  happy  eyes,  like  little  napkins  of  the 
fairies  spread  on  the  grass.  The  scent  of  the  partridge-berry  is 
between  that  of  the  rum-cherry  and  the  Mayflower,  or  like 
peach-stone  meats. 

"How  hard  a  man  must  work  in  order  to  acquire  his  lan 
guage, — words  by  which  to  express  himself.  I  have  known  a 
particular  rush  by  sight  for  the  past  twenty  years,  but  have 
been  prevented  from  describing  some  of  its  peculiarities,  be 
cause  I  did  not  know  its  name.  With  the  knowledge  of  the 
name  comes  a  distincter  knowledge  of  the  thing.  That  shore  is 
now  describable,  and  poetic  even.  My  knowledge  was  cramped 
and  confused  before,  and  grew  rusty  because  not  used:  it  be 
comes  communicable,  and  grows  by  communication.  I  can  now 
learn  what  others  know  about  the  same  thing.  In  earliest  spring 
you  may  explore, — go  looking  for  radical  leaves.  What  a  dim 
and  shadowy  existence  have  now  to  our  memories  the  fair 
flowers  whose  localities  they  mark!  How  hard  to  find  any 
trace  of  the  stem  now  after  it  has  been  flatted  under  the  snow 
of  the  winter !  I  go  feeling  with  wet  and  freezing  fingers  amid 
the  withered  grass  and  the  snow  for  their  prostrate  stems,  that 
I  may  reconstruct  the  plant:  — 

"  fWho  hath  the  upright  heart,  the  single  eye, 
The  clean,  pure  hand?' 

"It  is  as  sweet  a  mystery  to  me  as  ever  what  this  world  is. 
The  hickories  are  putting  out  young,  fresh,  yellowish  leaves, 
and  the  oaks  light-grayish  ones,  while  the  oven-bird  thrums 
his  sawyer-like  strains,  and  the  chewink  rustles  through  the 

[291  ] 


THOREAU 

dry  leaves,  or  repeats  his  jingle  on  a  tree-top,  and  the  wood- 
thrush,  the  genius  of  the  wood,  whistles  for  the  first  time  his 
clear  and  thrilling  strain.  It  sounds  as  it  did  the  first  time  I 
heard  it.  I  see  the  strong-colored  pines,  the  grass  of  trees,  in 
the  midst  of  which  other  trees  are  but  as  weeds  or  flowers,  a 
little  exotic.  The  variously  colored  blossoms  of  the  shrub-oaks, 
now  in  May  hang  gracefully  like  ear-drops;  the  frequent 
causeways  and  the  hedge-rows,  jutting  out  into  the  meadows, 
and  the  islands,  have  an  appearance  full  of  life  and  light. 
There  is  a  sweet,  wild  world  which  lies  along  the  strain  of  the 
wood-thrush,  rich  intervales  which  border  the  stream  of  its 
song,  more  thoroughly  genial  to  my  nature  than  any  other." 

I  heard  the  Spring  tap  at  the  door  of  Winter ; 

Silently  she  drew  herself  within  his  house ; 

Softly  she  with  the  sun  undraped  its  lights, 

And  made  her  cottage  gay.  With  buds,  with  flowers, 

With  her  frail  flowers,  she  painted  the  soft  floors 

Of  the  romantic  woods,  and  then  the  trees 

She  broke  into  their  clouds  of  foliage. 

The  humming  flies  came  forth,  the  turtles'  gold 

Shone  o'er  the  red-floored  brook,  the  thrasher  sang 

His  singular  song  near  by. 

O  Thou!  the  life 

That  flames  in  all  the  maples,  and  whose  hand 
Touches  the  chords  of  the  mute  fields  until 
They  sing  a  colored  chorus,  thou,  my  God, 
Let  mortals  kneel  until  thou  callest  them! 

The  neottia  and  the  rattle-snake  plantain  are  little  things 
which  make  one  pause  in  the  wood, — take  captive  the  eye. 

[  292  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 

The  morning-glory  by  HubbaroTs  bridge  is  a  goblet  full  of 
purest  morning  air,  and  sparkling  with  dew,  showing  the  dew- 
point.  He  scents  the  perfume  of  the  penny-royal  which  his 
feet  have  bruised;  the  Clethra  alnifolia  is  the  sweet-smelling 
queen  of  the  swamp.  The  white  waxen  berries  of  the  white- 
berried  or  panicled  cornel  are  beautiful,  both  when  full  of  fruit 
and  when  its  cymes  are  naked, — delicate  red  cymes  or  stems 
of  berries,  spreading  their  little  fairy  fingers  to  the  skies,  their 
little  palms ;  fairy  palms  they  may  be  called.  "  I  saw  a  delicate 
flower  had  grown  up  two  feet  high  between  the  horses1  path 
and  the  wheel-track.  An  inch  more  to  right  or  left  had  sealed 
its  fate,  or  an  inch  higher;  and  yet  it  lived  to  flourish  as  much 
as  if  it  had  a  thousand  acres  of  untrodden  space  around  it, 
and  never  knew  the  danger  it  incurred.  It  did  not  borrow 
trouble,  nor  invite  an  evil  fate  by  apprehending  it.11 

"I  think  of  what  times  there  are,  such  as  when  they  begin 
to  drive  cows  to  pasture,  May  £0,  and  when  the  boys  go  after 
the  cows  in  July.  There  is  that  time  about  the  first  of  June, 
the  beginning  of  summer,  when  the  buttercups  blossom  in  the 
now  luxuriant  grass,  and  I  am  first  reminded  of  mowing  and 
the  daisy;  when  the  lady's  slipper  and  the  wild-pink  have 
come  out  on  the  hill-sides  amid  the  goodly  company  of  the 
blue  lupines.  Then  has  its  summer-hour  fairly  struck  upon  the 
clock  of  the  seasons.  In  distant  groves  the  partridge  is  sitting 
on  her  eggs.  When  the  fresh  grass  waves  rank,  and  the  toads 
dream,  and  the  buttercups  toss  their  heads,  and  the  heat  dis 
poses  us  to  bathe  in  the  ponds  and  streams,  then  is  the  sum 
mer  begun.  I  saw  how  he  fed  his  fish,  they,  swimming  in  the 

[  293  ] 


THOREAU 

dark  nether  atmosphere  of  the  river,  rose  easily  to  swallow 
such  swimmers  (June-bugs)  of  the  light  upper  atmosphere, 
and  sank  to  its  bottom."  He  noticed  the  Datura  stramonium 
(thorn-apple)  as  he  was  crossing  the  beach  of  Hull,  and  felt  as 
if  he  was  on  the  highway  of  the  world  at  the  sight  of  this 
veteran  and  cosmopolite  traveller.  Nature  in  July  seems  like 
a  hen  with  open  mouth  panting  in  the  grass.  He  hears  then, 
as  it  were,  the  mellow  sounds  of  distant  horns  in  the  hollow 
mansions  of  the  upper  air,  and  he  thinks  more  than  the  road- 
full.  "While  I  am  abroad  the  ovipositors  plant  their  seeds  in 
me;  I  am  fly-blown  with  thoughts,  and  go  home  to  hatch  and 
brood  over  them.  It  is  now  the  royal  month  of  August.  When 
I  hear  the  sound  of  the  cricket,  I  am  as  dry  as  the  rye  which 
is  everywhere  cut  and  housed,  though  I  am  drunk  with  the 
season's  pain.  The  swallow  goes  over  with  a  watery  twitter 
ing.  The  farmer  has  driven  in  his  cows,  and  is  cutting  an 
armful  of  green  corn-fodder  for  them.  The  loads  of  meadow- 
hay  pass,  which  the  oxen  draw  indifferently.  The  creak  of  the 
cricket  and  the  sight  of  the  prunella  and  the  autumnal  dande 
lion  say : '  Work  while  it  is  day,  for  the  night  cometh  in  which 
no  man  can  work.1" 

"Both  the  common  largest  and  the  smallest  hypericums  and 
the  pin-weeds  were  very  rich  browns  at  a  little  distance  (in 
the  middle  of  March),  coloring  whole  fields,  and  also  withered 
and  falling  ferns  reeking  wet.  It  was  a  prospect  to  excite  a 
reindeer:  these  tints  of  brown  were  as  softly  and  richly  fair 
and  sufficing  as  the  most  brilliant  autumnal  tints.  There  are 
now  respectable  billows  on  our  vernal  seas;  the  water  is  very 

[  294  ] 


FIELD    SPORTS 

high,  and  smooth  as  ever  it  is.  It  is  very  warm;  I  wear  but 
one  coat.  On  the  water,  the  town  and  the  land  it  is  built  on 
seem  to  rise  but  little  above  the  flood.  I  realize  how  water 
predominates  on  the  surface  of  the  globe;  I  am  surprised  to 
see  new  and  unexpected  water-lines  drawn  by  the  level  edge 
of  the  flood  about  knolls  in  the  meadows  and  in  the  woods, 
—waving  lines  which  mark  the  boundary  of  a  possible  or 
probable  freshet  any  spring.  In  September  we  see  the  ferns 
after  the  frost,  like  so  many  brown  fires  they  light  up  the 
meadows.  In  March,  when  the  browns  culminated,  the  sun 
being  concealed,  I  was  drawn  toward  and  worshipped  the 
brownish  light  in  the  sod  and  the  withered  grass  on  barren 
hills;  I  felt  as  if  I  could  eat  the  very  crust  of  the  earth, — I 
never  felt  so  terrene,  never  sympathized  so  with  the  surface 
of  the  earth.  At  the  same  date  comes  the  arrow-head  crop, 
humanity  patent  to  my  eyes  as  soon  as  the  snow  goes  off.  Not 
hidden  away  in  some  crypt  or  grave,  or  under  a  pyramid,  no 
disgusting  mummery,  but  a  clean  stone ;  the  best  symbol  that 
could  have  been,  transmitted  to  me,  the  Red  Man,  his  mark. 
They  are  not  fossil  bones,  but,  as  it  were,  fossil  thoughts. 
When  I  see  these  signs,  I  know  that  the  maker  is  not  far  off, 
into  whatever  form  transmuted.  This  arrow-headed  character 
promises  to  outlast  all  others.  Myriads  of  arrow-points  lie 
sleeping  in  the  skin  of  the  revolving  earth  while  meteors  re 
volve  in  space.  The  footprint,  the  mind-print  of  the  oldest 
men, — for  they  have  camped  on  the  plains  of  Mesopotamia 
and  Marathon  too.  ...  I  heard  lately  the  voice  of  a  hound 
hunting  by  itself.  What  an  awful  sound  to  the  denizens  of  the 

[295] 


THOREAU 

wood,  that  relentless,  voracious,  demonic  cry,  like  the  voice 
of  a  fiend !  at  the  hearing  of  which  the  fox,  hare,  and  marmot 
tremble  for  their  young  and  themselves,  imagining  the  worst. 
This,  however,  is  the  sound  which  the  lords  of  creation  love, 
and  accompany  with  their  bugles  and  mellow  horns,  conveying 
a  singular  dread  to  the  hearer,  instead  of  whispering  peace  to 
the  hare's  palpitating  breast." 

"And  their  sun  does  never  shine, 

And  their  fields  are  bleak  and  bare, 
And  their  ways  are  filled  with  thorns : 
It  is  eternal  winter  there." 

W.  BLAKE. 

"As  the  pine-tree  bends  and  waves  like  a  feather  in  the  gale, 
I  see  it  alternately  dark  and  light,  as  the  sides  of  the  needles 
which  reflect  the  cool  sheen  are  alternately  withdrawn  from 
and  restored  to  the  proper  angle.  I  feel  something  like  the 
young  Astyanax  at  the  sight  of  his  father's  flashing  crest.  A 
peculiarity  of  these  days  (the  last  week  of  May)  is  the  first 
hearing  the  cricket's  creak,  suggesting  philosophy  and  thought. 
No  greater  event  transpires  now.  It  is  the  most  interesting 
piece  of  news  to  be  communicated,  yet  it  is  not  in  any  news 
paper.  I  went  by  Temple's, — for  rural  interest  give  me  the 
houses  of  the  poor.  The  creak  of  the  mole  cricket  has  a  very 
afternoon  sound.  The  heron  uses  these  shallows  on  the  river, 
as  I  cannot, — I  give  them  up  to  him.  I  saw  a  goldfinch  eat 
ing  the  seeds  of  the  coarse  barnyard  grass,  perched  on  it:  it 
then  goes  off  with  a  cool  twitter.  No  tarts  that  I  ever  tasted 
at  any  table  possess  such  a  refreshing,  cheering,  encouraging 

[  296  ] 


FIELD    SPORTS 

acid  that  literally  put  the  heart  in  you  and  an  edge  for  this 
world's  experiences,  bracing  the  spirit,  as  the  cranberries  I 
have  plucked  in  the  meadows  in  the  spring.  They  cut  the 
winter's  phlegm,  and  now  I  can  swallow  another  year  of  this 
world  without  other  sauce.  These  are  the  warm,  west-wind, 
dream-toad,  leafing-out,  willowy,  haze  days  [May  9~\.  No  in 
strumental  music  should  be  heard  in  the  streets  more  youth 
ful  and  innocent  than  willow  whistles.  Children  are  digging 
dandelions  by  the  roadside  with  a  pan  and  a  case  knife."  This 
recalls  that  paradisiacal  condition, — 

COUNTRY-LIVING* 

Our  reputation  is  not  great, 
Come !  we  can  omit  the  date ; 
And  the  sermon, — truce  to  it; 
Of  the  judge  buy  not  a  writ, 
But  collect  the  grains  of  wit, 
And  sound  knowledge  sure  to  hit. 
Living  in  the  country  then, 
Half  remote  from  towns  and  men, 
With  a  modest  income,  not 
More  than  amputates  the  scot; 
Lacking  vestures  rich  and  rare, 
Those  we  have  the  worse  for  wear, 
Economic  of  the  hat, 
And  in  fulness  like  the  rat, 
Let  us  just  conclude  we  are, 
Monarchs  of  a  rolling  star! 
Fortune  is  to  live  on  little, 

1  By  Channing. 

[297] 


THOREAU 

Happily  the  chip  to  whittle, 
He  who  can  consume  his  ills, 
Daintily  his  platter  fills. 

What's  the  good  of  hoarding  gold? 
Virtue  is  not  bought  and  sold. 
He  who  has  his  peace  of  mind 
Fears  no  tempest,  seas,  nor  wind: 
He  may  let  the  world  boil  on, 
Dumpling  that  is  quickly  done, 
And  can  drain  his  cup  so  pleasing, 
Not  the  ear  of  Saturn  teasing ; 
Thus  defended  in  his  state, 
Pass  its  laws  without  debate, 
And,  not  wasting  friends  or  fortune, 
Yet  no  distant  stars  importune. 

He  thus  describes  the  last  moments  of  an  unfortunate  min 
ister:  "Then  this  musky  lagune  had  put  forth  in  the  erection 
of  his  ventral  fins,  expanding  suddenly  under  the  influence  of 
a  more  than  vernal  heat,  and  his  tender  white  belly  where  he 
kept  no  sight,  and  the  minister  squeaked  his  last!  Oh,  what 
an  eye  was  there,  my  countrymen, — buried  in  mud  up  to  the 
lids,  meditating  on  what  ?  Sleepless  at  the  bottom  of  the  pool, 
at  the  top  of  the  bottom,  directed  heavenward,  in  no  danger 
from  motes!  Pouts  expect  not  snapping-turtles  from  below. 
Suddenly  a  mud  volcano  swallowed  him  up, — seized  his  mid 
riff.  He  fell  into  those  relentless  jaws  which  relax  not  even  in 
death. 

"I  saw  the  cat  studying  ornithology  between  the  corn -rows. 
She  is  full  of  sparrows,  and  wants  no  more  breakfast  this 

[  298  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 

morning,  unless  it  be  a  saucer  of  milk, — the  dear  beast!  No 
tree  has  so  fair  a  bole  and  so  handsome  an  instep  as  the  beech. 
The  botanists  have  a  phrase,  mantissa,  an  additional  matter 
about  something,  that  is  convenient."  He  uses  "crichicroches, 
zigzagging,  brattling,  tussucky,  trembles,  flavid,  z-ing";  and 
says  of  a  farmer,  that  he  keeps  twenty-eight  cows,  which  are 
milked  at  four  and  a  half  o^clock  A.  M.  ;  but  he  gives  his  hired 
men  none  of  the  milk  with  their  coffee.  "Frogs  still  sound 
round  Callitriche  Pool,  where  the  tin  is  cast;  no  doubt  the 
Romans  and  Ninevites  had  such  places :  to  what  a  perfect  sys 
tem  this  world  is  reduced !  I  see  some  of  those  little  cells,  per 
haps  of  a  wasp  or  bee,  made  of  clay:  it  suggests  that  these 
insects  were  the  first  potters.  They  look  somewhat  like  small 
stone  jugs.  Evergreens  would  be  a  good  title  for  my  things, 
or  Gill-go-over-the-ground,  or  Winter  Green,  or  Check erberry, 
or  Usnea  lichens.  Methinks  the  scent  is  a  more  oracular  and 
trustworthy  inquisition  than  the  eye.  When  I  criticise  my 
own  writing,  I  go  to  the  scent,  as  it  were.  It  reveals,  of  course, 
what  is  concealed  from  the  other  senses;  by  it,  I  detect  earthi- 
ness.  How  did  these  beautiful  rainbow  tints  get  into  the  shell 
of  the  fresh- water  clam,  buried  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of 
our  dark  river? 

"When  my  eyes  first  rested  on  Walden,  the  striped  bream 
rested  on  it  though  I  did  not  see  it,  and  when  Tahatawan 
paddled  his  canoe  there.  How  wild  it  makes  the  pond  and  the 
township  to  find  a  new  fish  in  it!  America  renews  her  youth 
here.  The  bream  appreciated  floats  in  the  pond  as  the  centre 
of  the  system,  a  new  image  of  God.  Its  life  no  man  can  explain 

[  299  ] 


THOREAU 

more  than  he  can  his  own.  I  want  you  to  perceive  the  mystery 
of  the  bream :  I  have  a  contemporary  in  Walden.  How  was  it 
when  the  youth  first  discovered  fishes?  was  it  the  number  of 
the  fin-rays  or  their  arrangement?  No!  but  the  faint  recogni 
tion  of  a  living  and  new  acquaintance,  a  friend  among  the 
fishes,  a  provoking  mystery. 

"I  see  some  feathers  of  a  blue  jay  scattered  along  a  wood- 
path,  and  at  length  come  to  the  body  of  the  bird.  What  a 
neat  and  delicately  ornamented  creature !  finer  than  any  work 
of  art  in  a  lady's  boudoir,  with  its  soft,  light  purplish-blue 
crest,  and  its  dark  blue  or  purplish  secondaries  (the  narrow 
half)  finely  barred  with  dusky.  It  is  the  more  glorious  to  live 
in  Concord  because  the  jay  is  so  splendidly  painted.  ...  In 
vain  were  the  brown  spotted  eggs  laid  [of  a  hen-hawk  killed], 
in  vain  were  ye  cradled  in  the  loftiest  pine  of  the  swamp! 
Where  are  your  father  and  mother?  will  they  hear  of  your 
early  death,  before  ye  had  acquired  your  full  plumage?  They 
who  nursed  and  defended  ye  so  faithfully!"  "It  is  already 
fall  [August  4]  in  low  swampy  woods  where  the  cinnamon-fern 
prevails.  So  do  the  seasons  revolve,  and  every  chink  is  filled. 
While  the  waves  toss  this  bright  day,  the  ducks  asleep  are  drift 
ing  before  it  across  the  ponds;  snow-buntings  are  only  winged 
snow-balls  (where  do  they  pass  the  night?).  This  [April  3] 
might  be  called  the  Day  of  the  Snoring  Frogs,  or  the  Awak 
ening  of  the  Meadows;  and  toad-spawn  is  like  sun-squawl, 
relating  our  marshes  to  Provincetown  Beach.  We  love  to  wade 
through  the  shallows  to  the  Bedford  shore;  it  is  delicious  to 
let  our  legs  drink  air.  The  palustris  frog  has  a  hard,  dry,  un- 

[  300  ] 


FIELD     SPORTS 

musical,  fine,  watchmanVrattle-like  stertoration;  he  knows 
no  winter.  .  .  .  Nature  works  by  contraries:  that  which  in 
summer  was  most  fluid  and  unresting  is  now,  in  February, 
most  solid  and  motionless.  Such  is  the  cold  skill  of  the  artist, 
he  carves  a  statue  out  of  a  material  which  is  as  fluid  as  water 
to  the  ordinary  workman, — his  sentiments  are  a  quarry  with 
which  he  works.  I  see  great  bubbles  under  the  ice  (as  I  settle 
it  down),  three  or  four  feet  wide,  go  waddling  or  wabbling 
away,  like  a  scared  lady  impeded  by  her  train.  So  Nature  con 
denses  her  matter:  she  is  a  thousand  thick.1'' 

"Some  circumstantial  evidence  is  very  strong,  as  when  you 
find  a  trout  in  the  milk.  'Says  I  to  Myself,1 — should  be  the 
motto  to  my  journal.  .  .  .  They  think  they  love  God!  It  is 
truly  his  old  clothes  of  which  they  make  scarecrows  for  the 
children.  When  will  they  come  nearer  to  God  than  in  those 
very  children?  Hard  are  the  times  when  the  infants'  shoes 
are  second-foot, — truncated  at  the  toes.  There  is  one  side  of 
Abner's  house  painted  as  if  with  the  pumpkin  pies  left  over 
after  Thanksgiving,  it  is  so  singular  a  yellow :  — 

"  And  foul  records 
Which  thaw  my  kind  eyes  still." 

"I  saw  the  seal  of  evening  on  the  river.  After  bathing,  even 
at  noonday,  a  man  realizes  a  morning  or  evening  life, — a  con 
dition  for  perceiving  beauty.  How  ample  and  generous  was 
Nature !  My  inheritance  is  not  narrow.  The  water,  indeed,  re 
flects  heaven  because  my  mind  does.  The  trivialness  of  the  day 
is  past;  the  greater  stillness,  the  serenity  of  the  air,  its  cool 
ness  and  transparency,  are  favorable  to  thought  (the  pensive 

[301  ] 


THOREAU 

eve).  The  shadow  of  evening  comes  to  condense  the  haze  of 
noon,  the  outlines  of  objects  are  firm  and  distinct  (chaste  eve). 
The  sun's  rays  fell  at  right  angles  on  the  pads  and  willow- 
stems,  I  sitting  on  the  old  brown  geologic  rocks,  their  feet 
submerged  and  covered  with  weedy  moss.  There  was  a  quiet 
beauty  in  the  landscape  at  that  hour  which  my  senses  were 
prepared  to  appreciate.  I  am  made  more  vigorous  by  my  bath, 
more  continent  of  thought.  Every  sound  is  music  now  in  view 
of  the  sunset  and  the  rising  stars,  as  if  there  were  two  persons 
whose  pulses  beat  together.11 


[  302  ] 


CHARACTERS 


"Without  misfortunes,  what  calamity! 
And  what  hostility  without  a  foe?" 

YOUNG. 

"O  thou  quick  heart,  which  pantest  to  possess 
All  that  anticipation  feigneth  fair ! 
Thou  vainly  curious  mind  which  wouldest  guess 
Whence  thou  didst  come,  and  whither  thou  mayst  go, 
And  that  which  never  yet  was  known  would  know." 

SHELLEY. 

"How  seldom,  Friend!  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honor  or  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  pains? 
Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means,  but  ends,  — 
Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 
The  great  good  man  ?  three  treasures,  love  and  light 
And  calm  thoughts,  regular  as  infant's  breath." 

COLERIDGE. 

"The  very  dust  of  his  writings  is  gold." 

BENTLEY  OF  BISHOP  PEARSON. 


CHAPTER     XV 

CHARACTERS 

RECOURSE  can  once  more  be  had  to  the  note-books  of  Tho- 
reau's  conversations,  as  giving  his  opinions  in  a  familiar  sort 
as  well  as  to  afford  in  some  measure  a  shelter  from  the  blasts 
of  fate.  "Here  is  news  for  a  poor  man,  in  the  raw  of  a  Sep 
tember  morning,  by  way  of  breakfast  to  him."" 

SOCIETY 

E.  The  house  looks  shut  up. 

C.  Oh,  yes!  the  owner  is  gone;  he  is  absolutely  out. 

E.  We  can  then  explore  the  grounds,  certain  not  to  inter 
rupt  the  studies  of  a  philosopher  famed  for  his  hospitality. 

C.  Now  just  hop  over  with  your  eyes  to  yonder  garden, 
which  realizes  Goldsmith's  description,  "The  rusty  beds,  un 
conscious  of  a  poke," — or  is  it  Cowper;  the  rusty  nail  over 
the  latch  of  the  gate;  the  peach-trees  are  rusty,  the  arbors 
rusty,  and  I  think  the  proprietor,  if  there  be  one,  is  buried 
under  that  heap  of  old  iron. 

E.  But  look  across  the  fence  into  Captain  Hardy's1  land: 
there 's  a  musician  for  you,  who  knows  how  to  make  men  dance 
for  him  in  all  weathers, — all  sorts  of  men,  Paddies,  felons, 
farmers,  carpenters,  painters, — yes!  and  trees  and  grapes,  and 
ice  and  stone,  hot  days,  cold  days.  Beat  that  true  Orpheus 

1  This  was  Captain  Abel  Moore,  whose  farm  lay  between  Emerson's  and 
Alcott's. 

[  305  J 


THOREAU 

lyre  if  you  can.  He  knows  how  to  make  men  sow,  dig,  mow, 
and  lay  stone-wall,  and  make  trees  bear  fruit  God  never  gave 
them:  and  foreign  grapes  yield  the  juices  of  France  and  Spain 
on  his  south  side.  He  saves  every  drop  of  sap,  as  if  it  were 
his  blood.  His  trees  are  full  of  brandy.  See  his  cows,  his  horses, 
his  swine.  And  he,  the  piper  that  plays  the  jig  which  they  all 
must  dance,  biped  and  quadruped  and  centipede,  is  the  plain 
est,  stupidest  harlequin  in  a  coat  of  no  colors.  His  are  the 
woods,  the  waters,  hills,  and  meadows.  With  one  blast  of  his 
pipe,  he  danced  a  thousand  tons  of  gravel  from  yonder  blow 
ing  sand-heap  to  the  bog-meadow,  where  the  English  grass  is 
waving  over  thirty  acres ;  with  another,  he  winded  away  sixty 
head  of  cattle  in  the  spring,  to  the  pastures  of  Peterboro1,  in 
the  hills. 

C.  And  the  other's  ruins  ask,  with  Henry  Vaughan :  — 

"  Why  lies  this  hair  despised  now, 
Which  once  thy  care  and  art  did  show? 
Who  then  did  dress  the  much-loved  toy, 
In  spires,  globes,  angry  curls  and  coy, 
Which  with  skill'd  negligence  seemed  shed 
About  thy  curious,  wild  young  head? 
Why  is  this  rich,  this  pistic  nard 
Spilt,  and  the  box  quite  broke  and  marred?" 

How  like  you  the  aspect  of  the  place  now  we  have  passed 
the  gate? 

E.  It  seems  well  designed,  albeit  the  fences  are  dropping 
away,  the  arbors  getting  ready  for  a  decent  fall,  and  the  bolts 
and  pins  lacking  in  the  machinery  of  the  gardens.  I  think 

[  306  ] 


CHARACTERS 

mostly  of  the  owner,  whom  you,  however,  know  so  much  better 
than  I  can. 

C.  I  know  him  as  I  know  old  fables  and  Grecian  mytholo 
gies.  Further  from  all  this  modern  life,  this  juggling  activity, 
this  superfluous  and  untamable  mediocrity,  seems  he  to  re 
move  with  each  season.  Dear  Eidolon l  dwelleth  in  the  rain 
bow  vistas  in  skies  of  his  own  creating.  No  man  in  history 
reminds  me  of  him,  nor  has  there  been  a  portrait  left  us  of 
so  majestic  a  creature,  who  certainly  hath  more  a  fabled  and 
half-divine  aspect  than  most  of  those  so  liberally  worshipped 
by  the  populace.  Born  in  the  palmy  days  of  old  Greece,  and 
under  the  auspices  of  Plato,  he  would  have  founded  a  school 
of  his  own,  and  his  fame  had  then  descended  to  posterity  by 
his  wise  sayings,  his  lovely  manners,  his  beautiful  person,  and 
the  pure  austerities  of  a  blameless  and  temperate  life.  Gladly 
had  the  more  eminent  sculptors  of  the  Athenian  metropolis 
chiselled  in  stone  his  mild  and  serene  countenance,  his  vener 
able  locks;  and  in  the  free  and  majestic  garb  of  those  pic 
turesque  eras  he  would  have  appeared  as  the  most  graceful 
and  noble  of  all  their  popular  figures.  He  would  have  founded 
their  best  institutions,  especially  chosen  by  the  youth  of  both 
sexes,  and  all  who  loved  purity,  sanctity,  and  the  culture  of 
the  moral  sentiment  had  flocked  about  this  convenient  and 
natural  leader.  Nor  should  his  posthumous  writings  have  been 
left  inedited;  for  the  worthiest  of  his  scholars,  seizing  upon 
these  happy  proofs  of  his  indefatigable  industry,  and  such 
evidences  of  his  uninterrupted  communications  with  higher 

1  Bronson  Alcott  in  1853. 
[   307   ] 


THOREAU 

natures,  would  have  made  it  the  most  chosen  pleasure  of  his 
life  to  have  prepared  them  in  an  orderly  and  beautiful  de 
sign  for  coming  ages.  I  know  not  but  he  had  been  worshipped 
formally,  in  some  peculiar  temple  set  apart  for  his  particular 
religion,  for  there  inevitably  springs  out  of  him  a  perfect 
cuttus,  which  a  wise  and  imaginative  age  could  have  shaped 
into  its  practical  advantage.  Born  upon  a  platform  of  sordid 
and  mechanical  aims,  he  has  somewhat  eclipsed  and  atrophied, 
and,  if  detected  critically,  blurred  with  scorn  or  ridicule,  so 
that  perchance  he  had  been  more  pleasantly  omitted  from  all 
observation. 

T.  Thou  hast  drawn,  O  Musophilus !  the  portrait  of  a  null 
imaginary  paragon.  I  have  not  seen  the  Phcenix  of  whom 
thou  hast  been  discoursing. 

E.  No:  there  is  not  much  of  the  worshipping  kind  in  thee, 
though  thou  shouldst  pass  well  for  being  worshipped.  Thou 
art,  I  fear,  among  the  scoffers.  Be  certain  that  the  truth  is 
so;  that  our  ancient  Eidolon  does  represent  those  aspects  of 
the  worthier  ages,  and  yet  shall  his  memory  be  respected  for 
these  properties. 

C.  I  admire  not  thy  notices  and  puffs  of  a  better  age,  of  a 
happier  time :  Don  Quixote's  oration  to  the  goat-herds  should 
have  despatched  that  figment.  I  like  better  Jarno's  opinion, 
—"our  America  is  here  or  nowhere."  Beneath  our  eyes  grow 
the  flowers  of  love,  religion,  sentiment,  and  valor.  To-day  is 
of  all  days  the  one  to  be  admired.  Alas  for  the  sentimental 
tenderness  of  Jean  Paul,  that  amusing  madman  with  a  rem 
nant  of  brains!  he  has  flung  up  his  Indian  ocean  with  the 

[  308  ] 


CHARACTERS 

peacock-circle  of  its  illuminated  waves  before  our  island;  and 
Thomas  Carlyle  with  his  bilious  howls  and  bankrupt  draughts 
on  hope  distracts  us.  Give  this  class  of  unhappy  people  a  little 
more  room  and  less  gloom.  What  canker  has  crept  into  so 
many  kind-hearted  creatures  to  deride  our  respectable  times? 
I  believe,  too,  in  the  value  of  Eidolon,  but  it  is  as  good  com 
pany.  There  are  no  milestones,  no  guide-posts,  set  up  in  that 
great  listener's  waste.  His  ears  are  open  spaces,  abysses  of  air 
into  which  you  may  pour  all  day  your  wisest  and  best,  your 
moonshine  and  your  dreams,  and  still  he  stands  like  one  ready 
to  hear.  All  other  men  seem  to  me  obstructive.  Their  minds 
are  full  of  their  own  thoughts, — things  of  Egypt,  as  Mr.  Bor- 
row"*s  gypsy  Antonio  calls  them, — but  Eidolon  has  reached 
this  planet  for  no  purpose  but  to  hear  patiently,  smoothly, 
and  in  toto  the  doings  of  your  muse;  and  if  he  replies,  it  is  in 
a  soft,  sweet,  and  floating  fashion,  in  a  sea  of  soap-bubbles 
that  sets  your  dull  phlegmatism  going,  loosens  the  rusty 
anchor  of  your  cupidity,  and  away  sails  your  sloop. 

T.  What  we  so  loosely  name  a  community  should  have 
been  the  appropriate  sphere  for  this  excellent  genius.  Even  in 
these  flatulent  attempts  they  demand  what  they  call  a  practi 
cal  man,  a  desperate  experimenter,  sure  to  run  the  communal 
bank  under  the  water.  A  few  gravelly  acres,  some  dry  cows  and 
pea-hens  to  saw  up  the  sunny  noons,  with  our  good  Eidolon  at 
the  head,  behold  a  possible  community.  In  his  pocket  lies  the 
practical  man's  notions  of  communing, — I  mean  his  purse. 

E.  I  have  fancied  Cervantes  shadows  in  his  novel  the  his 
tory  of  our  socialists. 

[  309  ] 


THOREAU 

C.  Not  of  the  whole :  ere  long  the  community  must  be  the 
idea  and  the  practice  of  American  society.  Each  year  more 
clearly  sets  forth  the  difficulties  under  which  we  labor  to 
conduct  the  simplest  social  operations,  like  mere  household 
service.  Such  a  rough  grindstone  is  your  Christian  American 
family  to  the  hard-worked  Irish  girl,  and  wild  is  the  reaction 
of  the  strong-tempered  blade  on  the  whirling  stone.  To  make 
coffee  and  bake  bread, — not  to  do  the  thing  for  yourself  con 
stitutes  the  person  who  does  it  at  once  the  possessor  of  your 
moneys,  goods,  and  estate;  and,  from  the  lack  of  sympathy 
and  equality  in  the  contract,  Bridget  slides  out  of  your 
kitchen  the  victor  in  this  unequal  contest,  when  you  have 
made  her  by  your  lessons  valuable  to  others.  And  what  bet 
ter  is  your  relation  with  the  gentleman  you  send  to  Wash 
ington  by  means  of  your  votes  and  good  wishes,  having  his 
eye  bent  on  the  main  chance.  Cities  are  malignant  with 
crime;  paupers  are  classed  and  studied  like  shrimps;  the 
railroad  massacres  its  hundreds  at  a  smash;  steamboats  go 
down,  and  blow  up;  and  these  evils  are  increasing  steadily, 
till  the  social  crisis  comes.  Nothing  for  all  these  cases  but 
the  community,  no  more  selfish  agents,  no  corporations  fight 
ing  each  other,  no  irresponsible  actors, — all  must  be  bound 
as  one  for  the  good  of  each,  labor  organized  for  the  whole 
equally. 

E.  We  have  sat  too  long  in  this  crazy  arbor:  it  is  conta 
gious.  Let  us  walk  amid  last  year's  stalks.  "Little  joy  has  he 
who  has  no  garden,"  says  Saadi.  "He  who  sees  my  garden 
sees  my  heart,"  said  the  prince  to  Bettine.  I  prefer  the  names 

[310] 


CHARACTERS 

of  pears  to  those  of  most  men  and  women.  Our  little  gentle 
man,  with  his  gaseous  inflamed  soul,  can  never  be  satisfied 
with  that  little  which  he  needs  and  not  for  long.  Satisfied ! 
No,  Faintheart,  you  are  as  unsatisfied  as  the  toper  without 
his  glass,  the  maid  without  her  lover,  or  the  student  without 
his  book. 

T.  I  can  allow  thee,  mortal  as  I  am,  but  six  minutes  to 
tell  thy  story.  What  needest  thou,  then,  added  to  that  thou 
hast?  Community,  indeed!  a  mere  artifice  of  the  do-nothings 
to  profit  by  the  labors  of  industry.  There  thou  art,  with  thy 
five  feet  eight  in  thy  shoes,  and  a  certain  degree  of  bodily 
vigor  and  constitution.  I  have  not  heard  thee  complain  of  the 
headache  or  the  gout;  thou  hast  never  St.  Anthony's  fire;  thy 
corns,  if  thou  hast,  are  limited;  and  thou  canst,  on  occasion, 
plod  thy  dozen  of  miles  and  not  expire.  Let  us  agree  that 
middle-age  has  come,  and  one  half  the  vital  candle  has  been 
burnt  and  snuffed  away.  Some  kind  of  shed,  with  a  moderate 
appurtenance  of  shingle,  belongs  to  your  covering,  on  the  out 
skirts  of  yonder  village;  some  little  table-linen,  not  damask 
I  grant;  maybe  a  cup  of  coffee  to  your  breakfast,  and  some 
crust  of  haddock,  or  soured  residuum  of  starch,  called  bread, 
to  thy  meal.  Of  clothing  thou  hast  not  cloth  of  gold, — we 
are  plain  country  people  and  decline  it.  A  few  friends  remain, 
as  many  or  more  than  thou  hast  deserved.  Having  all  this, 
some  liberty  and  hope  of  MarstonV  immortality  (that  depends 
on  personal  value),  I  seriously  demand,  what  more  could  you 
have?  Can  nothing  appease  the  ever  disorderly  cravings  of 
1  Marston  Watson  of  Plymouth. 

[311  ] 


THOREAU 

that  adamantine  contradiction,  thy  imbecile  soul?  Buy  him 
up  or  flatter  him  into  quiet;  or  could  you  not  give  him  away 
or  sell  him  into  splendid  exile?  at  least,  expunge  him! 

C.  Whichever  way  we  choose  in  the  fields,  or  down  the  loco 
motive  spine  that  bands  with  yellow  the  else  green  meadow, 
you  will  observe  the  haymaker.  Now  is  the  high  holiday 
and  the  festival  of  that  gramineous  sect;  now  are  the  cattle 
kneeled  to  by  humanity ;  and  all  these  long  baking  days  there 
they  toil  and  drudge,  collating  the  winter  hay-mow  of  cow 
and  ox,  determined  by  some  secret  fate  to  labor  for  an  in 
ferior  race. 

E.  They  are  so  serious  in  such  matters,  one  might  suppose 
they  never  speculate  on  the  final  cause  of  pitching  hay. 

C.  Just  as  seriously  this  excellent  society  contemplates  the 
butcher,  the  grocer,  or  the  clergyman.  As  if,  given  time  and 
the  human  race,  at  once  follows  absurd  consequence.  Spring 
to  your  pitch,  jolly  haymakers!  you  fancy  you  are  putting 
time  to  good  advantage  in  chopping  away  so  many  innocent 
spires  of  grass,  drying  them,  and  laying  them  industriously 
in  the  mow.  In  spite  of  that  official  serenity  which  nothing 
can  disturb,  if  you  would  forego  the  cow  and  horse  from  your 
contemplations  you  might  leave  the  grass  unmown  for  ever 
and  a  day.  Organize  an  idea  among  the  brethren  of  spending 
their  hours  after  a  certain  fashion,  and  then  woe  be  to  the 
lunatics  who  discern  its  imperfections.  In  history,  haymaking 
may  figure  as  an  amazing  bit  of  the  antique,  and  pitchforks 
be  exhibited  in  museums  for  curiosities. 

E.  I  understand  your  jest:  it  is  your  old  notion  to  abbre- 


CHARACTERS 

viate  human  work.  You  would  fain  introduce  the  study  of 
botany  or  metaphysics  for  these  vigorous  games  of  our  sun 
burnt  swains,  and  convert  them  into  sedentary  pedants,  to 
be  fed  on  huckleberries  and  mast.  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face 
shalt  thou  earn  thy  bread.  Labor  comes  out  of  human  exist 
ence,  like  the  butterfly  out  of  the  caterpillar. 

C.  How  tremendously  that  vigorous  Hibernian  pokes  aloft 
his  vast  pitchfork  of  blue  timothy !  May  I  never  be  seated  on 
the  prong!  And  his  brogue  is  as  thick  as  his  hay -mow.  No  law 
ever  made  such  a  police  as  labor.  "Early  to  bed  and  early  to 
rise""  grows  by  farming.  Tire  him,  says  Destiny;  wear  him  out, 
arms,  legs,  and  back;  secure  his  mischievous  wild  energy;  get 
him  under,  the  dangerous  cartridge  he  is,  of  exploding  unli 
censed  sense;  and  whether  it  be  good  for  cow  or  horse,  what 
ever  the  means,  the  end  is  delightful.  Nature  must  have  made 
the  human  race,  like  most  of  her  things,  when  she  had  the 
chance,  and  without  consideration  of  the  next  step.  She  drove 
along  the  business,  and  so  invented  mankind  as  rapidly  as  pos 
sible;  and  observing  the  redskin,  cousin  to  the  alligator,— 
living  on  the  mud  of  rivers,  the  sap  of  trees,  with  a  bit  of  flat 
stone  for  his  hatchet,  and  a  bit  of  pointed  stone  for  his  cannon, 
—  Redskin,  a  wild  fellow,  savage  and  to  the  manner  born, — 
leaving  the  woods  and  fields,  the  flowers,  insects,  and  minerals 
untouched,  she  was  thus  far  content.  This  imperfect  redskin 
was  surely  some  improvement  upon  the  woodchuck  and  the 
musquash.  But  after  coming  to  the  age  of  bronze,  the  Danish 
Kitchen-moddings,  and  the  Swiss  lake-dwellings,  some  million 
centuries,  and  a  certain  development,  the  aboriginal  began  to 

[313] 


THOREAU 

develop  a  new  series  of  faculties  that  Nature  in  eliminating 
him  never  thought  nor  dreamed  of;  for  we  must  carefully 
confess  Nature  misses  imagination.  Our  redskin  had  fenced 
himself  from  bears  and  deer  with  their  own  skins,  lit  a  peren 
nial  fire  (was  it  not  hard,  yet  to  be  expected  in  the  Greeks, 
that  they  had  never  a  temple  of  Prometheus  ?),  dug  out  some 
stones  and  melted  them,  burnt  the  trunks  of  trees  into  boats, 
at  length  built  houses,  and  all  the  while  with  his  arts,  fine  or 
coarse,  grew  up  his  passions.  Our  whiteskin — for  now  the 
color  of  him,  by  shelter  and  clothing,  had  turned  white — 
became  a  cultivated  savage,  and,  still  luxuriating  in  his  old 
cannibal  propensities,  hacked  and  hewed,  fought  and  killed 
his  kind,  much  to  the  surprise  of  his  sleepy  mother;  and  not 
after  the  honest  primeval  fashions  that  she  liked  well  enough, 
being  of  her  own  invention,  but  after  every  excruciating  de 
vice  of  artist-demonism.  Now  what  could  she  do  for  him,  how 
keep  him  in  place,  circumvent  his  trucidating  mania,  and 
make  him  somewhat  helpless?  It  was  the  work  of  a  moment 
(Nature's  moments  being  rather  extended),  an  accident.  She 
not  only  taught  whiteskin  how  to  work,  but  he  came  to  be 
just  a  mere  laboring  machine;  the  savage  had  his  insouciance, 
the  civilizee  has  his  competitive  industry, — "Dearest,  choose 
between  the  two!" 

T.  This  new  toy  is  the  true  Dana  ides  sieve,  the  rock  of 
Tantalus,  which  is  christened  industry,  economy,  or  money. 
Like  the  boy's  toad  in  the  well,  whose  position  his  master  set 
him  to  make  out  as  a  task, — the  toad  jumping  one  step  up 
and  falling  two  steps  back,  how  long  would  it  require  for 

[314] 


CHARACTERS 

him  to  get  to  the  top?  The  boy  ciphered  a  long  time  and 
filled  his  slate,  went  through  "recess,"  and  noon  and  after 
noon:  at  last  his  instructor  asked  him,  after  keeping  him  at 
it  all  day,  as  to  his  progress  and  how  far  he  had  got  the 
toad.  "What?"  said  the  boy,— "that  toad,  that  nasty  little 

toad?  Why,  to  be  sure,  he's  half-way  down  into by  this 

time."  That  is  where  the  great  mother,  blessings  on  her  com 
fort,  has  located  our  brother-man,  with  his  pitchfork,  plough- 
tail,  and  savings-bank. 

C.  It  is  the  consequence  of  a  quandary,  this  boasted  civili 
zation,  as  Fourier  terms  it,  when  Nature,  having  hurried  her 
poor  plucked  creature  into  existence  (even  if  Darwin  thinks 
he  rubbed  off  his  wool,  climbing  bread-fruit  trees  and  flinging 
down  cocoa-nuts  to  his  offspring),  was  compelled  for  safety 
to  set  up  this  golden  calf,  this  lovely  mermaid -civilization, 
with  a  woman's  head  and  a  fish's  tail,  clipper-ships,  and  daily 
papers.  Expediency  is  Nature's  mucilage,  her  styptic.  Never 
shall  we  see  the  terminus  of  this  hastily  built  railroad,  no 
station.  But  there  must  be  a  race  that  will;  when  the  mind 
shall  be  considered  before  the  belly,  and  when  raising  food 
for  cows,  other  things  being  possible,  may  not  be  to  every 
human  being  just  an  inscrutable  penalty.  Cows  may  get  post 
poned,  after  a  time,  for  mere  men  and  women ;  but  even  milk 
ing  a  beast  is  a  better  course  of  policy  than  cutting  holes  in 
your  brother's  skull  with  a  bushwhack.  Our  mythology  hath 
in  it  a  great  counterpoise  of  ethics  and  compensation.  The 
Greeks  hung  aloft  their  theoretical  people,  where  at  least 
they  could  do  no  harm  if  they  did  not  any  benefit;  while 

[315] 


THOREAU 

some  of  our  goodies  to-day  seem  to  be,  like  the  spider,  spin 
ning  an  immortal  coil  of  ear-wax. 

T.  I  strive  to  be  courtesy  itself,  yet  I  may  not  accept  thy 
fact  nor  thy  conclusion.  That  redskin  was  nearer  nature,  was 
truer  than  this  pale-face;  his  religion  of  the  winds,  the  waters, 
and  the  skies,  was  clearer  and  fresher  than  your  dry  and  desic 
cated  theologies,  dug  out  of  Egyptian  tombs  and  Numidian 
sandbanks.  He  properly  worshipped  the  devil,  the  evil  spirit, 
wisely  agreeing  that  if  the  good  spirit  was  of  that  ilk  he  was 
harmless,  like  the  Latins,  whom  I  look  upon  as  the  best  type 
of  Indians  that  ever  lived.  As  Tiberius  says,  who  made  his 
Latin  rhyme  (no  doubt  they  had  as  much  rhyme  as  they 
wanted),  "deorum  injuries^  dis  curce" — "the  gods  may  cut 
their  own  corns  for  all  me."  Or  what  old  Ennius  thinks: — 

"Ego  deum  genus  dixi  et  dicam  coelitum, 
Sed  eos  non  curare,  opinor,  quid  agat  humanum  genus ; 
Nam,  si  curent,  bene  bonis  sit,,  male  malis,  quod  nunc  abest." 

In  other  words,  "I  know  all  about  your  race  of  gods,  but 
little  they  trouble  their  heads  about  your  folks ;  if  they  cared 
a  snap,  they  would  see  the  good  well  off  and  the  bad  pun 
ished,  which  is  just  the  opposite  to  the  fact."  Is  not  that  good 
Indian?  Or  what  Lucan  says  in  his  "Pharsalia"  (vii.  447): — 

' ( Mentimur  regnare  Jovem  .  .  .  mortalia  nulli 
Sunt  curata  Deo." 

"Every  fool  knows  it's  a  lie  that  Jove  reigns, — the  gods 
don't  busy  their  brains  about  such  nobodies  as  men."  I  try  to 
give  you  the  ideas  of  these  solemn  Latin  savages,  who  had 

[316] 


CHARACTERS 

neither  hats  to  their  heads,  shirts  to  their  bodies,  nor  shoes 
to  their  feet.  Why  might  not  some  learned  professor  derive 
us  from  the  Romans?  I  believe  a  return  to  the  savage  state 
would  be  a  good  thing,  interpolating  what  is  really  worthy 
in  our  arts  and  sciences  and  thousand  appliances,— 

"That  the  wind  blows, 
Is  all  that  anybody  knows." 

C.  I  believe  in  having  things  as  they  are  not!  Ay,  down  to 
the  dust  with  them,  slaves  as  they  are!  Down  with  your  towns, 
governments,  tricks  and  trades,  that  seem  like  the  boy  who 
was  building  the  model  of  a  church  in  dirt  as  the  minister 
was  passing!  "Why,  my  little  lad,1'  said  he,  "why!  making  a 
meeting-house  of  that  stuff?  Why,  why!"  "Yes,"  answered 
the  youth,  "yes,  I  am;  and  I  expect  to  have  enough  left  over 
to  make  a  Methodist  minister  besides." 

T.  There  is  always  some  new  fatality  attending  our  civility. 
Here  is  our  town,  six  miles  square,  with  so  many  dogs  and 
cats,  so  many  men  and  women  upon  it,  a  town  library  and  a 
bar-room,  taxes,  prisons,  churches,  railroads, — and  always 
more  and  more  to  come.  And  I  must  be  taxed  as  well  as  the 
others;  as  if  I  am  ripe  for  chains  or  the  gibbet,  because  the 
drunkard,  poisoned  with  his  own  rum  while  selling  it  for 
the  good  of  his  neighbors,  dies  of  cerebral  congestion  or  a  pis 
tol.  Society  has  no  definitions,  and  of  course  no  distinctions; 
accepts  no  honesties,  believes  too  much  in  going  to  the  bad. 

C.  You  are  over-critical.  The  true  art  of  life  consists  in 
accepting  things  as  they  are,  and  not  endeavoring  vainly  to 

[  317  ] 


THOREAU 

better  them.  It  is  but  a  drawing  of  lots.  I  am  melted  when  I 
see  how  finely  things  come  out,  and  pin-pricks  decide  grave 
affairs.  A  certain  man  (I  will  not  name  him  here,  as  person 
alities  must  be  avoided)  determined  to  keep  house  on  a  better 
plan:  no  flies,  no  bills, — even  the  cry  of  offspring  at  night 
cancelled.  This  was  enough  evil  for  that  day:  the  next  all  the 
doors  were  open,  flies  abounded,  children  cried  in  swarms, 
cash  for  bills  was  needed.  Our  friend  began  again  with  it  all, 
put  his  reforms  in  practice,  and  serenity  came  from  his  efforts 
for  the  time  being;  but  there  is  another  relapse  as  soon  as  his 
hand  leaves  the  crank  of  the  household.  So  he  consults  Mrs. 
Trip, — she  has  experience  as  a  housekeeper, — details  his 
wretchedness:  life  is  at  such  a  pass,  expense  vast,  little  to  be 
had  for  it  and  nothing  to  defray  it;  a  ream  of  German  fly 
paper  has  produced  double  the  number  of  flies  that  it  kills;  as 
for  his  babies,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  combination  among 
them  to  blow  their  lungs  out  with  squalls.  Mrs.  Trip  heard 
the  social  horrors,  and  said,  "Mr.  Twichett,  excuse  me,  there 
is  a  little  matter.""  "Yes,  mum,  I  know  it,"  says  our  gentle 
man,  supposing  it  the  latest  infant  or  the  bill  for  salt-fish. 
"It  appears,  Mr.  Twichett,  that  you  keep  your  eyes  open. 
Yes,  sir !  you  keep  your  eyes  open."" 

CHRYSOSTOMi 

C.  I  lately  paid  a  visit  upon  an  ingenious  gentleman,  and 
found  him  mopping  up  a  topic  which  had  a  singular  impor 
tance  in  his  eyes,  and  that  was  New  England.  "Indeed,"  I 
1  This  was  Alcott  in  another  aspect. 

[318] 


CHARACTERS 

thought,  "a  fine  subject  for  the  dead  of  winter!"  You  must 
know,  sir,  that  friend  Chrysostom  presents  the  aspect  of  man 
talking,  as  dear  Eidolon  thinking.  And,  as  the  honey-lipped 
philosopher  is  about  to  embark  on  a  voyage  to  the  provinces, 
he  is  resolved  to  enlighten  them  there  on  this  his  favorite 
problem.  "Indeed,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "this  man,  like  Cur- 
tius,  is  also  a  hero  in  his  way :  he  is  a  man  of  parts ;  and,  next 
to  beating  carpets  on  the  Common,  I  must  say  he  chooses  de 
lightful  subjects."  I  fell  upon  him  with  my  modern  flail,  to 
see  what  grain  I  could  find  amid  his  glittering  straws. 

T.  And  how  did  you  prosper?  Was  there  much  sediment 
in  the  husk? 

C.  Chrysostom  is  too  learned  a  master  of  his  weapon  to 
abandon  all  his  treasure  to  the  unreserved  gaze  of  each  in 
credulous  worldling.  He  has,  however,  attained  proximately  to 
something  that  might  be  termed  a  criticism  of  New  England. 
Good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  'tis  not  a  pure  vacuity  that  one 
finds  in  this  pitiful  corner  of  a  continent,  with  Cape  Cod  for 
a  seacoast  and  Wachusett  for  a  mountain.  Chrysostom  has 
picked  his  men  as  specimens  of  the  mass;  his  persons  on  which 
he  so  much  insists,  the  merchant,  the  scholar,  the  reformer, 
the  proser,  and  what  not, — along  the  dusty  high-roads  of  life, 
but  you  may  not  greatly  expand  the  list.  A  few  serenities 
stand  sentinel  on  the  watch-towers  of  thought,  not  as  stars 
to  the  mass,  but  as  burnt-out  tar  barrels.  Materialism  carves 
turkeys  and  cuts  tunnels.  Be  bright,  my  dear  talker,  shine 
and  go  along;  as  Dante  says,  "Hurry  on  your  words."  I 
deemed  not  so  much  of  his  topics  as  of  the  man  himself, 

[319] 


THOREAU 

greater  far  than  all  his  topics,  the  ultimate  product  of  all  the 
philosophies,  with  an  Academe  of  Types.  He  has  caught  the 
universe  on  his  thumbnail,  and  cracked  it;  he  has  been  at 
the  banquet  of  the  gods,  and  borrowed  the  spoons.  Most  other 
men  have  some  superstitious  drawback  to  them,  some  want  of 
confidence  in  their  universal  wholes.  But  our  great  friend,  with 
his  muscular  habit  of  thought,  grasps  hold  of  infinity  and 
breaks  it  across  his  arm,  as  Gustavus  Adolphus,  that  hero  of 
Captain  Dalgetty's,  a  horse-shoe.  "Never,'*''  said  he,  "can  you 
get  a  good  brain  until  all  the  people  of  the  earth  are  poured 
into  one,  and  when  the  swarthy  Asiatic  thinks  in  the  same 
skull  with  the  ghostly  Swede.  And  soon  I  see  that  this  rail 
road  speed  of  the  age  shall  transmigrate  into  the  brain.  Then 
shall  we  make  the  swiftness  of  the  locomotive  into  the  swift 
ness  of  the  thought;  and  the  great  abolition  society  shall  come, 
not  of  slavery  alone, — in  dress  and  diet,  in  social  relations 
and  religion.  It  may  not  prevail  for  a  pair  of  hermits  to  go 
out  together  and  make  a  community;  for  so  shall  they  be  the 
more  solitary.  You  think  the  men  are  too  near  that  I  should 
draw  their  portraits  truly;  but  you  know  not  that  I  am  living 
as  one  dead,  and  that  my  age  is  like  one  walking  far  off  in  a 
dream  to  me.  That  golden  steed,  the  Pegasus,  on  which  I  am 
mounted,  has  shot  with  me  far  beyond  the  thoughts  and  the 
men  of  to-day.1'  As  he  said  this,  I  looked  up  at  the  window, 
certainly  expecting  to  see  some  sort  of  strange  apparition  in 
the  air,  some  descent  of  a  sign  from  heaven  upon  this  glorious 
expansion  beyond  time;  but  all  I  could  see  was  a  fat  serving- 
maid,  in  a  back  casement,  arranging  some  furniture  with  a 
[  320  ] 


CHARACTERS 

vacillating  rag.  Types  of  the  ideal  and  the  real,  I  thought  to 
myself. 

"Man  should  never  for  an  instant  blame  the  animals,1'  he 
continued,  "for  showing  their  apparent  inferiorities:  they  do 
simply  formalize  our  sins;  and  Agorax  should  beware  of  pork, 
or  he  is  feasting  upon  his  ancestry.  The  tail  of  the  dog  is 
the  type  of  the  affections."  No  matter  how  dry  the  topic,  it 
seems  as  if  Chrysostom  had  plunged  down  into  the  cellar  of 
the  gods,  and  moistened  his  intellectual  clay  at  every  golden 
cider-bung.  "Nature  is  a  fine  setting  for  man;  and  when  I 
speak  of  the  New  English,  how  can  I  forget  the  departure 
from  their  old  abbeys,  green  fields,  and  populated  wheat-lands 
for  this  sour  fish-skin  ?  Three  degrees  of  elevation  towards  the 
pole  overturn  all  jurisprudence,  and  virtue  faints  in  the  city 
of  the  Pilgrims.  The  handsome  youth  fires  the  tragic  pistol, 
the  handsome  girl  seeks  her  swift  revenge  on  prose  in  her 
opium.  And  in  these  architectures  cold,  still,  and  locked,  in 
these  flat,  red-brick  surfaces,  and  the  plate-glass  windows 
that  try  to  flatten  your  nose  when  you  think  to  look  in, — do 
you  not  behold  something  typical?  This  prismatic  nucleus  of 
trade,  deducting  its  tolls  from  the  country  through  its  roads, 
is  drawing  Vermont  and  New  Hampshire  and  floating  them 
away  o'er  yon  glittering  blue  sea  between  those  icy  islands! 
Some  smaller  German  orchestra  leads  off  the  musical  ear,  and 
the  shops  are  cracking  with  French  pictures  that  would  not 
be  sold  in  Paris.  The  merchant  has  his  villa,  his  park,  and  his 
caleche:  it  is  the  recoil  of  the  passions;  it  is  fate,  and  no  star 
of  heaven  is  visible.  The  oak  in  the  flower-pot  might  serve  as 

[  321  ] 


THOREAU 

a  symbol;  or,  as  Jugurtha  said,  when  he  was  thrust  into  his 
prison,  'Heavens,  how  cold  is  this  bath  of  yours!'  If  the  All- 
Father  had  said  to  our  metaphysical  Northman,  to  this  Brain- 
berserkir:  Come  and  sit  thee  beneath  the  fluttering  palms, 
and  listen  to  the  flow  of  lordly  rivers;  thee  will  I  feed  on 
orient  pearls  of  dew,  thy  bed  shall  be  of  sun-flowers,  thy  dress 
of  the  gossamer  twilight!" 

TO    ALCOTT 

Light  from  the  spirit-land,, 
Fire  from  a  burning  brand, 
If  in  this  cold  sepulchral  clime, 
Chained  to  an  unmelodious  rhyme, 

Thou  slowly  moulderest, — 
Yet  cheer  that  great  and  humble  heart, 
Prophetic  eye  and  sovereign  part, 
And  be  thy  future  greatly  blest, 
And  by  some  richer  gods  impressed, 

And  a  sublimer  art. 

Strike  on !  nor  still  the  golden  lyre, 
That  sparkles  with  Olympian  fire, 
And  be  thy  words  the  soul's  desire 

Of  this  dark  savage  land ; 
Nor  shall  thy  sea  of  glory  fail 
Whereon  thou  sweepest,  —  spread  thy  sail, 
And  blow  and  fill  the  heaviest  gale, 

It  shall  not  swerve  thy  hand. 

Born  for  a  fate  whose  secrets  none 
Shall  gaze  upon  beneath  earth's  sun, 


CHARACTERS 

Child  of  the  high,  the  only  One,, 

Thy  glories  sleep  secure; 
Yet  on  the  coast  of  heaven  thy  wave 
Shall  dash  beyond  an  unknown  grave, 
And  cast  its  spray  to  light  and  save 

Some  other  barks  that  moor! 


[  323  ] 


MORAL 


"Exactissima  norma  Romanse  frugalitatis." 

Said  of  Mannius  Curius. 

"Laborers  that  have  no  land 
To  lyve  on  but  hire  handes." 

PIERS  PLOWMAN. 

"Les  gros  bataillons1  ont  toujours  raison." 

JOMINI. 

"The  day  that  dawns  in  fire  will  die  in  storms, 
Even  though  the  noon  be  calm." 

SHELLEY. 

;  When  thou  dost  shine,  darkness  looks  white  and  fair, 
Frowns  turn  to  music,  clouds  to  smiles  and  air." 

VAUGHAN. 

"Dum  in  Proelio  non  procul  hinc 
Inclinatam  suorum  aciem 
Mente  manu  voce  et  exemplo 
Restituebat 

Pugnans  ut  heroas  decet 
Occubuit."  MARSHAL  KEITH'S  EPITAPH. 


1  Frederick  the  Great  has  the  same  saying  with  the  word  "  regiments  "for  "  bataillons.' 


CHAPTER    XVI 
MORAL 

WHAT  a  life  is  the  soldier's, — like  other  men's!  what  a  mas 
ter  is  the  world!  Heaven  help  those  who  have  no  destiny  to 
fulfil,  balked  of  every  chance  or  change,  of  all  save  the  cer 
tainty  of  death!  Thoreau  had  a  manifest  reason  for  living. 
He  used  to  say,  "I  do  not  know  how  to  entertain  those  who 
can't  take  long  walks.  A  night  and  a  forenoon  is  as  much 
confinement  to  those  wards  (the  house)  as  I  can  stand."  And 
although  the  rich  and  domestic  could  "beat  him  in  frames," 
like  that  Edinburgh  artist  whom  Turner  thus  complimented, 
he  was  their  match  in  the  open.  Men  affected  him  more  natu 
rally.  "How  earthy  old  people  become, — mouldy  as  the  grave. 
Their  wisdom  smacks  of  the  earth:  there  is  no  foretaste  of 
immortality  in  it.  They  remind  one  of  earth-worms  and  mole- 
crickets."  Seeing  the  negro  barber  sailing  alone  up  the  river 
on  a  very  cold  Sunday,  he  thinks  he  must  have  experienced 
religion;  a  man  bathing  from  a  boat  in  Fairhaven  Pond  sug 
gests:  "Who  knows  but  he  is  a  poet  in  his  yet  obscure  and 
golden  youth?"  And  he  loved  to  go  unmolested.  He  would 
not  be  followed  by  a  dog  nor  cane.  He  said  the  last  was  too 
much  company.  When  asked  whether  he  knew  a  young  miss, 
celebrated  for  her  beauty,  he  inquired,  "Is  she  the  one  with 
the  goggles?"  He  thought  he  never  noticed  any  one  in  the 
street;  yet  his  contemporaries  may  have  known  as  much  of 
him  while  living  as  of  Shakespeare  when  dead.  His  mental 

[  327  ] 


THOREAU 

appearance  at  times  almost  betrayed  irritability;  his  words 
were  like  quills  on  "the  fretful  porcupine'"  (a  libel  on  the  crea 
ture,  which  is  patience  ab  ovo).  One  of  his  friends  complained 
of  him:  "He  is  so  pugnacious  I  can  love,  but  I  can  never  like 
him."  And  he  had  a  strong  aversion  to  the  Scribes  and  Phari 
sees.  Those  cracked  potsherds,  traditionary  institutions,  served 
him  as  butts,  against  whose  sides  he  discharged  the  arrows  of 
his  wit,  echoing  against  their  massive  hollowness.  Yet,  truly, 
the  worship  of  beauty,  of  the  fine  things  in  nature,  of  all 
good  and  friendly  pursuits,  was  his  staple;  he  enjoyed  com 
mon  people;  he  relished  strong,  acrid  characters.  In  Boston 
he  used  to  visit  the  end  of  Long  Wharf,  having  no  other  busi 
ness  than  with  the  libraries  and  that  brief  sight  of  the  sea, 
so  fascinating  to  a  landsman.  (This  made  our  friend  [Calvin] 
Green l  say,  who  happened  to  have  spent  forty  out  of  forty  - 

1  Calvin  H.  Green,  a  mechanic  of  Rochester,  Michigan,  admiring  Thoreau, 
made  for  Ellery  Channing  a  long  cane  from  the  wood  of  the  Californian 
manzanilla  (an  evergreen  shrub,  bearing  a  bright  red  apple),  selecting  as 
a  motto  for  its  silver  head,  — 

"Love  equals  swift  and  slow, 

And  high  and  low." 

This  was  intended  for  Thoreau  himself;  but  he  dying  before  it  was  ready, 
Mr.  Green  gave  it  to  Mr.  Channing,  with  the  additional  inscription, 
"Thoreau-Channing — Friendship."  (This  cane  E.  C.  has  given  to  F.  B.  S.) 
Mr.  Green  came  to  Concord,  September  1,  1863,  and  stayed  a  week,  visit 
ing  Channing,  Emerson,  the  Thoreau  family,  and  myself;  he  walked  with 
Channing  to  Walden,  the  Cliffs,  and  the  Estabrook  country — passing,  on 
the  way  to  the  latter,  Thoreau's  cabin,  on  Clarke's  farm,  where  it  stood 
till  it  fell  in  pieces,  about  June,  1868.  It  lasted  twenty-three  years,  and 
might  have  stood  a  century,  with  care,  being  well  built,  but  poorly  roofed. 
Another  lover  of  Thoreau,  named  Harrington,  came  from  Indiana  in  Sep 
tember,  1866,  who  told  Channing  that  Thoreau's  death  had  caused  him 

[  328  ] 


MORAL 

five  years  in  a  back  country  [Rochester,  Michigan],  that  he 
"had  taken  a  boat-ride  on  the  Atlantic.") 

When  with  temperaments  radically  opposed  to  his,  he  drew 
in  the  head  of  his  pugnacity  like  that  portion  of  one  of  his 
beloved  turtles,  and  could  hiss  and  snap  with  any  ancient  of 
them  all.  The  measured,  conservative  class,  dried-up  Puritan 
families,  who  fancy  the  Almighty  Giver  of  all  good  things 
has  fitted  their  exquisite  brain  precisely  to  his  evangelic  night 
cap;  prosers  with  their  universe  of  meanness  and  conceit  to 
change  square  with  you  against  gold  and  diamonds;  folks  of 
easy  manners,  polished  and  oiled  to  run  sharply  on  the  track 
of  lies  and  compliments, — of  such  he  was  no  great  admirer. 
Neither  did  he  go  with  Goethe,  that  other  people  are  wig- 
blocks  on  which  we  must  fit  our  own  false  heads  of  hair  to 
fetch  them  out.  Like  a  cat  he  would  curl  up  his  spine  and 
spit  at  a  fop  or  monkey,  and  despised  those  who  were  run 
ning  well  down  hill  to  damnation.  His  advice  to  a  drunkard 
as  the  wisest  plan  for  him  to  reform,  "You  had  better  cut 
your  throat," — that  was  his  idea  of  moral  suasion,  and  cor 
responded  with  his  pleasure  at  John  Brown's  remark  of  a 
border  ruffian  he  had  despatched,  rapidly  paring  away  his 
words, — "He  had  a  perfect  right  to  be  hung."  To  this  his 
question  points, — "If  it  were  not  for  virtuous,  brave,  gen- 
more  sorrow  than  that  of  any  person  he  had  ever  known.  He  had  never 
seen  him.  Channing  went  with  him  to  Walden. 

Thoreau  quoted  to  Alcott,  as  having  come  to  him  in  a  dream,  the  old 
line  of  Storer :  — 

"His  short  parenthesis  of  life  was  sweet," 
which  may  have  had  reference  to  John  Thoreau. 

[  329  ] 


THOREAU 

erous  natures,  would  there  be  any  sweet  fragrance?  Genius 
rises  above  nature;  in  spite  of  heat,  in  spite  of  cold,  works  and 
lives."  Persons  with  whom  he  had  no  sympathy  were  to  him 
more  removed  than  stocks  and  stones:  — 

"Looking  at  the  latter,  I  feel  comparatively  as  if  I  were 
with  my  kindred.  Men  may  talk  about  measures  till  all  is 
blue  and  smells  of  brimstone,  and  then  go  home  and  expect 
their  measures  to  do  their  duty  for  them:  the  only  measure 
is  integrity  and  manhood.  We  seem  to  have  used  up  all  our 
inherited  freedom  like  the  young  bird  the  albumen  in  the 
shell.  Ah,  how  I  have  thriven  on  solitude  and  poverty !  I  can 
not  overstate  this  advantage,  I  am  perhaps  more  wilful  than 
others.  Common  life  is  hasty,  coarse,  and  trivial,  as  if  you 
were  a  spindle  in  a  factory.  No  exercise  implies  more  manhood 
and  vigor  than  joining  thought  to  thought.  How  few  men 
can  tell  what  they  have  thought!  I  hardly  know  half  a  dozen 
who  are  not  too  lazy  for  this.  You  conquer  fate  by  thought. 
If  you  think  the  fatal  thought  of  men  and  institutions,  you 
need  never  pull  the  trigger.  The  consequences  of  thinking 
inevitably  follow.  There  is  no  more  Herculean  task  than  to 
think  a  thought  about  this  life,  and  then  get  it  expressed. 
There  are  those  who  never  do  or  say  anything,  whose  life 
merely  excites  expectation.  Their  excellence  reaches  no  further 
than  a  gesture  or  mode  of  carrying  themselves;  they  are  a 
sash  dangling  from  the  waist,  or  a  sculptured  war-club  over 
the  shoulder.  They  are  like  fine-edged  tools  gradually  becom 
ing  rusty  in  a  shop- window.  I  like  as  well,  if  not  better,  to  see 
a  piece  of  iron  or  steel  out  of  which  such  tools  will  be  made, 

[  330  ] 


MORAL 

or  the  bushwhack  in  a  man's  hand.  .  .  . 

"The  watchmaker  finds  the  oil  from  the  porpoise's  jaw  the 
best  thing  for  oiling  his  watches.  Man  has  a  million  eyes,  and 
the  race  knows  infinitely  more  than  the  individual.  Consent 
to  be  wise  through  your  race.  We  are  never  prepared  to  be 
lieve  that  our  ancestors  lifted  large  stones  or  built  thick  walls. 
.  .  .  There  is  always  some  accident  in  the  best  things,  whether 
thoughts,  or  expressions,  or  deeds.  The  memorable  thought, 
the  happy  expression,  the  admirable  deed  are  only  partly  ours. 
The  thought  came  to  us  because  we  were  in  a  fit  mood;  also 
we  were  unconscious  and  did  not  know  that  we  had  said  or 
done  a  good  thing.  We  must  walk  consciously  only  part  way 
toward  our  goal,  and  then  leap  in  the  dark  to  our  success. 
What  we  do  best  or  most  perfectly  is  what  we  most  thor 
oughly  learned  by  the  longest  practice,  and  at  length  it  fell 
from  us  without  our  notice  as  a  leaf  from  a  tree.  It  is  the  last 
time  we  shall  do  it, — our  unconscious  leavings:  — 

" 'Man  is  a  summer's  day,  whose  youth  and  fire 

Cool  to  a  glorious  evening  and  expire/          (Vaughan.) 

"It  is  remarkable  how  little  we  attend  to  what  is  con 
stantly  passing  before  us,  unless  our  genius  directs  our  at 
tention  that  way.  In  the  course  of  ages  the  rivers  wriggle  in 
their  bed  until  it  feels  comfortable  under  them.  Time  is  cheap 
and  rather  insignificant.  It  matters  not  whether  it  is  a  river 
which  changes  from  side  to  side  in  a  geological  period,  or  an 
eel  that  wriggles  past  in  an  instant.  A  man's  body  must  be 
rasped  down  exactly  to  a  shaving.  The  mass  of  men  are  very 

[331  ] 


THOREAU 

unpoetic,  yet  that  Adam  that  names  things  is  always  a  poet. 
No  man  is  rich  enough  to  keep  a  poet  in  his  pay,  yet  what 
a  significant  comment  on  our  life  is  the  least  strain  of  music. 
This  poor,  timid,  unenlightened,  thick-skinned  creature,  what 
can  it  believe?  When  I  hear  music,  I  fear  no  danger;  I  am 
invulnerable;  I  see  no  foe;  I  am  related  to  the  earliest  times, 
and  to  the  latest.  I  hear  music  below ;  it  washes  the  dust  off 
my  life  and  everything  I  look  at.  The  field  of  my  life  be 
comes  a  boundless  plain,  glorious  to  tread,  with  no  death  or 
disappointment  at  the  end  of  it.  In  the  light  of  this  strain 
there  is  no  Thou  nor  I.  How  inspiring  and  elysian  it  is  to 
hear  when  the  traveller  or  the  laborer,  from  a  call  to  his  horse 
or  the  murmur  of  ordinary  conversation,  rises  into  song!  It 
paints  the  landscape  suddenly;  it  is  at  once  another  land, — 
the  abode  of  poetry.  Why  do  we  make  so  little  ado  about 
echoes?  they  are  almost  the  only  kind  of  kindred  voices  that 
we  hear:  — 

11  e Scattering  the  myrrhe  and  incense  of  thy  prayer.'" 

A  coxcomb  was  railed  at  for  his  conceit:  he  said,  "It  is  so 
common  every  one  has  it;  why  notice  it  specially  in  him?" 
He  gets  up  a  water-color  sketch  of  an  acquaintance.1  "He 
is  the  moodiest  person  perhaps  I  ever  saw.  As  naturally  whim 
sical  as  a  cow  is  brindled,  both  in  his  tenderness  and  in  his 
roughness  he  belies  himself.  He  can  be  incredibly  selfish  and 
unexpectedly  generous.  He  is  conceited,  and  yet  there  is  in 
him  far  more  than  usual  to  ground  conceit  upon.  He  will  not 

1  It  was  Channing  himself. 
[  332  ] 


MORAL 

stoop  to  rise.  He  wants  something  for  which  he  will  not  pay 
the  going  price.  He  will  only  learn  slowly  by  failure,  not  a 
noble  but  a  disgraceful  failure,  and  writes  poetry  in  a  sublime 
slip-shod  style."  But  despite  his  caveats,  his  acceptance  was 
large,  he  took  nearly  every  bill.  The  no-money  men,  butter- 
egg  folks;  women  who  are  talking-machines  and  work  the 
threads  of  scandal ;  paupers,  walkers,  drunk  or  dry,  poor-house 
poets,  no  matter,  the  saying  of  Terence  abided, — "I  am  a 
man,  and  nothing  human  but  what  can  go  down  with  me." 
Of  such  a  one  he  says,  "His  face  expressed  no  more  curiosity 
or  relationship  to  me  than  a  custard  pudding."  Of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  poor  relations. 

No  man  had  a  better  unfinished  life.  His  anticipations  were 
vastly  rich :  more  reading  was  to  be  done  over  Shakespeare 
and  the  Bible;  more  choice  apple-trees  to  be  set  in  uncounted 
springs, — for  his  chief  principle  was  faith  in  all  things, 
thoughts,  and  times,  and  he  expected,  as  he  said,  "to  live  for 
forty  years."  He  loved  hard  manual  work,  and  did  not  mean 
to  move  every  year,  like  certain  literary  brethren.  In  his  busi 
ness  of  surveying  he  was  measurably  diligent,  and  having  en 
tered  on  a  plan  would  grind  his  vest  away  over  the  desk  to 
have  done  with  it.  He  laid  out  every  molecule  of  fidelity  upon 
his  employer's  interests,  and  in  setting  a  pine-lot  for  one  says, 
"/  set  every  tree  with  my  own  hands"  Yet  like  moralists, 
though  he  tried  to  "pay  every  debt  as  if  God  wrote  the  bill," 
as  Emerson  says,  he  takes  himself  to  task:  "I  remember  with 
a  pang  the  past  spring  and  summer  thus  far.  I  have  not  been 
an  early  riser:  society  seems  to  have  invaded  and  overrun  me." 

[  333  ] 


THOREAU 

Thus  intensely  he  endeavored  to  live,  but  living  is  not  all. 
He  had  now  more  than  attained  the  middle  age,  his  health 
sound  to  all  appearance,  his  plans  growing  more  complete, 
more  cherished;  new  lists  of  birds  and  flowers  projected,  new 
details  to  be  gathered  upon  trees  and  plants.  Now,  embarking 
more  closely  in  the  details  of  this  human  enterprise  which 
had  been  something  miscellaneous,  the  time  had  fairly  come 
to  take  an  account  of  stock,  and  to  know  how  he  really  stood 
on  terra  Jirma.  Here  was  a  great  beginning,  in  a  condition  of 
matchless  incompleteness, — to  be  adjusted  by  no  one  but  the 
owner.  In  December,  1860,  he  took  a  severe  cold  by  exposing 
himself  while  counting  the  rings  on  trees  and  when  there  was 
snow  on  the  ground.  This  brought  on  a  bronchial  affection, 
which  he  much  increased  by  lecturing  at  Waterbury;  and  al 
though  he  used  prudence  after  this,  and  indeed  went  a-jour- 
neying  with  his  friend,  Horace  Mann,  Jr.,  into  Minnesota, 
this  trouble  with  the  bronchiae  continued. 

Early  in  his  illness  Thoreau  began  a  letter  to  Ricketson 
(March  19,  1861),  for  which  he  substituted  a  very  different 
one  three  days  later, — using  only  the  first  few  lines  of  this, 
and  substituting  an  account  of  his  own  sickness  for  that  of 
the  Minotts.  This  first  draft  runs  thus: — 

"Friend  R. 

Your  letter  reached  me  in  due  time,  but  I  had  already  heard 
the  blue-birds.  They  were  here  on  the  26  of  Feb.  at  least, — but 
not  yet  do  the  larks  sing  or  the  flickers  call,  with  us.  The  blue 
birds  come  again,  as  does  the  same  spring,  but  it  does  not  find 

[  334  ] 


MORAL 

the  same  mortals  here  to  greet  it.  You  remember  Minotfs  cottage 
on  the  hillside, — well,  it  finds  some  change  there,  for  instance. 
The  little  gray,  hip-roofed  cottage  was  occupied  at  the  beginning 
of  February,  this  year,  by  George  Minott  and  his  sister  Mary, 
respectively  78  and  80  years  old, — and  Miss  Potter,  74-  These 
had  been  its  permanent  occupants  for  many  years.  Minott  had 
been  on  his  last  legs  for  some  time, — at  last  off  his  legs,  expect 
ing  weekly  to  take  his  departure,  —  a  burden  to  himself  and 
friends, — yet  dry  and  natural  as  ever.  His  sister  took  care  of 
him,  and  supported  herself  and  family  with  her  needle,  as  usual. 
He  lately  willed  his  little  property  to  her,  as  a  slight  compensa 
tion  for  her  care.  Feb.  13,  their  sister,  86  or  87,  who  lived  across 
the  way,  died.  Miss  Minott  had  taken  cold  in  visiting  her,  and 
was  so  sick  that  she  could  not  go  to  her  funeral.  She  herself 
died  of  lung  fever  on  the  18th,  (which  was  said  to  be  the  same 
disease  that  her  sister  had), — having  just  willed  her  property 
back  to  George,  and  added  her  own  mite  to  it.  Miss  Potter,  too, 
had  now  become  ill,  —  too  ill  to  attend  the  funeral, — and  she 
died  of  the  same  disease  on  the  23rd.  All  departed  as  gently  as 
the  sim  goes  down,  leaving  George  alone. 

I  called  to  see  him  the  other  day, — the  27th  of  February, — 
a  remarkably  pleasant  spring  day, — and  as  I  was  climbing  the 
sunny  slope  to  his  strangely  deserted  house,  I  heard  the  Jirst 
blue  birds  upon  the  elm  that  hangs  over  it.  They  had  come  as 
usual,  though  some  who  used  to  hear  them  were  gone.  Even 
Minott  had  not  heard  them,  though  the  door  was  open,  — -for  he 
was  thinking  of  other  things.  Perhaps  there  will  be  a  time  when 
the  blue  birds  themselves  will  not  return  any  more. 

[  335  ] 


THOREAU 

/  hear  that  George,  sitting  on  the  side  of  his  bed,  a  few  days 
after  this,  called  out  to  his  niece,  who  had  come  to  take  care  of 
him,  and  was  in  the  next  room, — to  know  if  she  did  not  feel 
lonely?  'Yes,  I  do"*  said  she.  'So  do  P  added  he.  He  said  he 
was  like  an  old  oak,  all  shattered  and  decaying.  '/  am  sure, 
Uncle J  said  his  niece,  'you  are  not  much  like  an  oak."1  6I  mean'' 
said  he,  '  that  I  am  like  an  oak  or  any  other  tree,  inasmuch  as 
I  cannot  stir  from  where  I  am?" 

Here  the  draft  ends;  and  when  Thoreau  took  up  the  sub 
ject  again,  March  22,  he  gave  the  date  of  his  "severe  cold," 
from  which  he  never  recovered,  as  December  3,  1860. 

With  an  unfaltering  trust  in  God's  mercies  and  never  de 
serted  by  his  good  genius,  he  most  bravely  and  unsparingly 
passed  down  the  inclined  plane  of  a  terrible  malady,  pulmo 
nary  consumption,  working  steadily  at  the  completing  of  his 
papers  to  his  last  hours,  or  so  long  as  he  could  hold  the  pen 
cil  in  his  trembling  fingers.  Yet,  if  he  did  get  a  little  sleep  to 
comfort  him  in  this  year's  campaign  of  sleepless  affliction,  he 
was  sure  to  interest  those  about  him  with  his  singular  dreams, 
more  than  usually  fantastic :  he  said  once  that,  having  got  a 
few  moments  of  repose,  "sleep  seemed  to  hang  round  my  bed 
in  festoons."  The  last  sentence  he  incompletely  spoke  con 
tained  but  two  distinct  words,  "moose"  and  "Indians,"  show 
ing  how  fixed  in  his  mind  was  that  relation.  Then  the  world 
he  had  so  long  sung  and  delighted  in  faded  tranquilly  away 
from  his  eyes  and  hearing,  till  on  that  beautiful  spring  morn 
ing  of  May  6,  1862,  it  closed  on  him.  He  had  written  long 

before:  — 

[  336  ] 


MORAL 

"In  this  roadstead  I  have  ridden, 
In  this  covert  I  have  hidden, 
Friendly  thoughts  were  cliffs  to  me, 
And  I  hid  beneath  their  lea. 

This  true  people  took  the  stranger, 
And  warm-hearted  housed  the  ranger; 
They  received  their  roving  guest, 
And  have  fed  him  with  the  best; 

Whatsoe'er  the  land  afforded 
To  the  stranger's  wish  accorded, 
Shook  the  olive,  stripped  the  vine, 
And  expressed  the  strengthening  wine. 

And  by  night  they  did  spread  o'er  him 
What  by  day  they  spread  before  him, 
That  good-will  which  was  repast 
Was  his  covering  at  last." 

His  state  of  mind  during  this,  his  only  decided  illness,  de 
serves  notice  as  in  part  an  idiosyncrasy.  He  accepted  it  heroi 
cally,  but  in  no  wise  after  the  traditional  manner.  He  experi 
enced  that  form  of  living  death  when  the  very  body  refuses 
sleep,  such  is  its  deplorable  dependence  on  the  lungs  now 
slowly  consumed  by  atoms;  in  its  utmost  terrors  refusing  aid 
from  any  opiate  in  causing  slumber,  and  declaring  uniformly 
that  he  preferred  to  endure  with  a  clear  mind  the  worst  penal 
ties  of  suffering,  rather  than  be  plunged  in  a  turbid  dream  by 
narcotics.  He  retired  into  his  inner  mind,  into  that  unknown, 
unconscious,  profound  world  of  existence  where  he  excelled; 
there  he  held  inscrutable  converse  with  just  men  made  per- 

[  337  ] 


THOREAU 

feet,  or  what  else,  absorbed  in  himself.  "The  night  of  time 
far  surpasses  the  day;  and  who  knows  when  was  the  equinox? 
Every  hour  adds  unto  the  current  arithmetic,  which  scarce 
stands  one  moment.  And  since  death  must  be  the  Lucina  of 
life;  since  our  longest  sun  sets  on  right  declensions,  and  makes 
but  winter  arches,  therefore  it  cannot  be  long  before  we  lie 
down  in  darkness  and  have  our  light  in  ashes.  Sense  endureth 
no  extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy  us  or  themselves:  our  de 
livered  senses  not  relapsing  into  cutting  remembrances,  our 
sorrows  are  not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of  repetitions."  An  in 
effable  reserve  shrouded  this  to  him  unforeseen  fatality:  he 
had  never  reason  to  believe  in  what  he  could  not  appreciate, 
nor  accepted  formulas  of  mere  opinions;  the  special  vitaliza- 
tion  of  all  his  beliefs,  self-consciously,  lying  in  the  marrow  of 
his  theology. 

As  noticed,  he  had  that  forecast  of  life  which  by  no  means 
fulfils  its  prediction  deliberately;  else  why  are  these  mortal 
roads  on  which  we  so  predictively  travel  strewn  with  the 
ashes  of  the  young  and  fair, — this  Appian  Way  devised  in 
its  tombs, — from  the  confidence  of  the  forty  years  to  come? 
"Quisqite  suos  patimur  manes, — we  have  all  our  infirmities 
first  or  last,  more  or  less.  There  will  be,  peradventure,  in  an 
age,  or  one  of  a  thousand,  a  Pollio  Romulus,  that  can  pre 
serve  himself  with  wine  and  oil;  a  man  as  healthy  as  Otto 
Hervardus,  a  senator  of  Augsburg  in  Germany,  whom  Leovi- 
tius,  the  astrologer,  brings  in  for  an  example  and  instance  of 
certainty  in  his  art;  who,  because  he  had  the  significators  in 
his  geniture  fortunate,  and  free  from  the  hostile  aspects  of 

[  338  ] 


MORAL 

Saturn  and  Mars, — being  a  very  cold  man, — could  not  re 
member  that  ever  he  was  sick."  The  wasting  away  of  his  body, 
the  going  forth  and  exit  of  his  lungs,  which,  like  a  steady 
lamp,  give  heat  to  the  frame,  was  to  Henry  an  inexplicably 
foreign  event,  the  labors  of  another  party  in  which  he  had  no 
hand;  though  he  still  credited  the  fact  to  a  lofty  inspiration. 
He  would  often  say  that  we  could  look  on  ourselves  as  a  third 
person,  and  that  he  could  perceive  at  times  that  he  was  out 
of  his  mind.  Words  could  no  longer  express  these  inexplicable 
conditions  of  his  existence,  this  sickness  which  reminded  him 
of  nothing  that  went  before:  such  as  that  dream  he  had  of 
being  a  railroad  cut,  where  they  were  digging  through  and 
laying  down  the  rails, —  the  place  being  in  his  lungs. 

His  habit  of  engrossing  his  thoughts  in  a  journal,  which 
had  lasted  for  a  quarter  of  a  century;  his  out-of-door  life,  of 
which  he  used  to  say,  if  he  omitted  that,  all  his  living  ceased, 
— all  this  now  became  so  incontrovertibly  a  thing  of  the  past 
that  he  said  to  me  once,  standing  at  the  window,  "I  cannot 
see  on  the  outside  at  all.  We  thought  ourselves  great  philoso 
phers  in  those  wet  days,  when  we  used  to  go  out  and  sit  down 
by  the  wall-sides.""  This  was  absolutely  all  he  was  ever  heard 
to  say  of  that  outward  world  during  his  illness ;  neither  could 
a  stranger  in  the  least  infer  that  he  had  ever  a  friend  in  field 
or  wood.  Meanwhile,  what  was  the  consciousness  in  him, — 
what  came  to  the  surface?  Nothing  save  duty,  duty,  work, 
work!  As  Goethe  said  at  the  loss  of  his  son,  "It  is  now  alone 
the  idea  of  duty  that  must  sustain  us,"  Thoreau  now  concen 
trated  all  his  force,  caught  the  shreds  of  his  fleeting  physical 

[  339  ] 


THOREAU 

strength  the  moment  when  the  destinies  accorded  to  him  a 
long  breath,  to  complete  his  stories  of  the  Maine  Woods, 
then  in  press;  endeavoring  vainly  to  finish  his  lists  of  Birds 
and  Flowers,  and  arrange  his  papers  on  Night  and  Moonlight. 
Never  at  any  time  at  all  communicative  as  to  his  own  physi 
cal  condition  (having  caught  that  Indian  trick  of  superlative 
reticence),  he  calmly  bore  the  fatal  torture,  this  dying  at  the 
stake,  and  was  torn  limb  from  limb  in  silence: — 

"When  all  this  frame 

Is  but  one  dramme,  and  what  thou  now  descriest 
In  sev'rall  parts  shall  want  a  name." 

His  patience  was  unfailing:  assuredly  he  knew  not  aught 
save  resignation ;  he  did  mightily  cheer  and  console  those  whose 
strength  was  less.  His  every  instant  now,  his  least  thought 
and  work,  sacredly  belonged  to  them,  dearer  than  his  rapidly 
perishing  life,  whom  he  should  so  quickly  leave  behind.  As 
long  as  he  could  possibly  sit  up,  he  insisted  on  his  chair  at 
the  family-table,  and  said,  "It  would  not  be  social  to  take  my 
meals  alone."  And  on  hearing  an  organ  in  the  streets,  playing 
some  old  tune  of  his  childhood  he  should  never  hear  again, 
the  tears  fell  from  his  eyes,  and  he  said,  "Give  him  some 
money!  give  him  some  money!1' 

"He  was  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon-day  grove; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  would  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed ; 
[  340  ] 


MORAL 

And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude." 

His  mortal  ashes  are  laid  in  the  Concord  burying-ground. 
A  lady1  on  seeing  this  tranquil  spot,  and  the  humble  stone 
under  the  pitch-pine  tree,  replied  to  one  who  wished  for  him 
a  star  y-pointing  monument,  "This  village  is  his  monument, 
covered  with  suitable  inscriptions  by  himself.'" 

Truth,  audacity,  force,  were  among  Thoreau's  mental  char 
acteristics,  devoted  to  humble  uses.  His  thoughts  burned  like 
flame,  so  earnest  was  his  conviction.  He  was  transported  in 
finitely  beyond  the  regions  of  self  when  pursuing  his  objects, 
single-hearted,  doing  one  thing  at  a  time  and  doing  that  in 
the  best  way!  Self-reliance  shall  serve  for  his  motto, — 
"His  cold  eye  truth  and  conduct  scanned." 

His  love  of  wildness  was  real.  Whatever  sport  it  was  of 
Nature,  this  child  of  an  old  civilization,  this  Norman  boy 
with  the  blue  eyes  and  brown  hair,  held  the  Indian's  creed, 
and  believed  in  the  essential  worth  and  integrity  of  plant  and 
animal.  This  was  a  religion  to  him ;  to  us,  mythical.  He  spoke 
from  a  deeper  conviction  than  ordinary,  which  enforced  on 
him  that  sphere  and  rule  of  life  he  kept.  So  far  an  anchorite, 
a  recluse,  as  never  to  seek  popular  ends,  he  was  yet  gifted 
with  the  ability  and  courage  to  be  a  captain  of  men.  Heroism 
he  possessed  in  its  highest  sense, — the  will  to  use  his  means 
to  his  ends,  and  these  the  best.  Inexplicable  he  was,  if  spon 
taneous  action  and  free  genius  are  not  transparent:  as  they 


cannot  be  to  those  who  put  aside  the  principles  of  being,  as 
l  Elizabeth  Hoar. 

[341   ] 


THOREAU 

understood  by  himself  and  adopt  an  estimate  that  confines 
all  men  to  one  spiteful  code, — their  own. 

As  to  his  results, — possibly  the  future  may  determine  that 
our  village  life,  unknown  and  unnoticed,  without  name  and 
influence  in  the  present,  was  essential  and  vital,  as  were  the 
realities  he  affected,  the  immutable  truths  he  taught, — learned 
in  the  school  of  Nature.  Endowed  with  unusual  power  and 
sagacity,  if  he  did  not  shine  in  public  councils,  or  lead  the 
State,  he  yet  defended  the  right,  and  was  not  the  idle  specta 
tor  of  wrong  and  oppression.  He  showed  that  the  private  man 
can  be  a  church  and  state  and  law  unto  himself.  In  a  possible 
New  England  he  may  stand  for  the  type  of  coming  men,  who 
shall  invent  new  forms  and  truer  modes  of  mortal  society. 
His  moral  and  critical  estimates  appear  in  his  published  writ 
ings;  here  I  have  united  a  few  memorabilia  of  his  general  life, 
with  passages  not  before  published  from  his  pen. 

His  work  was  laid  out  for  a  long  life;  since  the  business  he 
employed  himself  about  required  duration,  before  all  others. 
To  see  him  giving  up  all  without  a  murmur, — so  utterly  re 
signed  to  the  wish  of  Heaven,  even  to  die,  if  it  must  be  so, 
rather  than  there  should  be  any  struggle  in  his  existence 
against  those  beautiful  laws  he  had  so  long  worshipped  and 
obeyed  (whether  consciously  or  not), — was  enough  to  be  de 
scribed,  if  pen  had  the  power  to  do  it.  For  the  most  he  did 
not  realize  his  illness, — that  is,  did  not  make  it  real;  but 
seemed  to  look  on  it  as  something  apart  from  himself,  in 
which  he  had  no  concern.  "I  have  no  wish  to  live,  except  for 
my  mother  and  sister,"  was  one  of  his  conclusions.  He  wrote 

[  342  ] 


MORAL 

for  the  press  till  his  strength  was  no  longer  sufficient  even  to 
move  a  pencil;  nevertheless  he  did  not  relax,  but  had  the 
papers  still  laid  before  him.  I  am  not  aware  that  anywhere  in 
literature  there  beams  a  greater  heroism;  the  motive,  too,  was 
sacred, — for  he  was  doing  these  things  that  his  family  might 
reap  the  advantage. 

One  of  his  noblest  and  ablest  associates  was  a  philosopher, 
whose  heart  is  like  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey;1  and 
it  was  affecting  to  see  this  venerable  man  kissing  his  brow, 
when  the  damps  and  sweat  of  death  lay  upon  it,  even  if  Henry 
knew  it  not.  It  seemed  to  me  an  extreme  unction,  in  which  a 
friend  was  the  best  priest. 

lAlcott. 


f  343  ] 


MEMORIAL    VERSES 

ILLUSTRATING     CHIEFLY     SCENES     OF 
THOREAU'S     LIFE 


TO     HENRY 

WHITE     POND 

A     LAMENT 

MORRICE     LAKE 

TEARS     IN     SPRING 

THE     MILL     BROOK 

STILLRIVER,    THE     WINTER     WALK 

TRURO 

BAKER     FARM 

FLIGHT     OF     GEESE 


MEMORIAL    VERSES 


TO     HENRY 

HEAR'ST  thou  the  sobbing  breeze  complain 
How  faint  the  sunbeams  light  the  shore  ?  • 

Thy  heart,  more  fixed  than  earth  or  main, 
Henry !  thy  faithful  heart  is  o'er. 

Oh,  weep  not  thou  thus  vast  a  soul, 
Oh,  do  not  mourn  this  lordly  man, 

As  long  as  Walden's  waters  roll, 
And  Concord  river  fills  a  span. 

For  thoughtful  minds  in  Henry's  page 
Large  welcome  find,  and  bless  his  verse, 

Drawn  from  the  poet's  heritage, 

From  wells  of  right  and  nature's  source. 

Fountains  of  hope  and  faith !  inspire 
Most  stricken  hearts  to  lift  this  cross ; 

His  perfect  trust  shall  keep  the  fire, 
His  glorious  peace  disarm  the  loss ! 


II 
WHITE    POND 

GEM  of  the  wood  and  playmate  of  the  sky, 

How  glad  on  thee  we  rest  a  weary  eye, 

When  the  late  ploughman  from  the  field  goes  home, 

And  leaves  us  free  thy  solitudes  to  roam ! 

[347] 


THOREAU 

Thy  sand  the  naiad  gracefully  had  pressed, 
Thy  proud  majestic  grove  the  nymph  caressed, 
Who  with  cold  Dian  roamed  thy  virgin  shade, 
And,  clothed  in  chastity,  the  chase  delayed, 
To  the  close  ambush  hastening  at  high  noon, 
When  the  hot  locust  spins  his  Zendic  rune. 

Here  might  Apollo  touch  the  soothing  lyre, 

As  through  the  darkening  pines  the  day's  low  fire 

Sadly  burns  out ;  or  Venus  nigh  delay 

With  young  Adonis,  while  the  moon's  still  ray 

Mellows  the  fading  foliage,  as  the  sky 

Throws  her  blue  veil  of  twilight  mystery. 

No  Greece  to-day ;  no  dryad  haunts  the  road 
Where  sun-burned  farmers  their  poor  cattle  goad ; 
The  black  crow  caws  above  yon  steadfast  pine, 
And  soft  Mitchella's  odorous  blooms  entwine 
These  mossy  rocks,  where  piteous  catbirds  scream, 
And  Redskins  flicker  through  the  white  man's  dream. 
Who  haunts  thy  wood-path? — ne'er  in  summer  pressed 
Save  by  the  rabbit's  foot ;  its  winding  best 
Kept  a  sure  secret,  till  the  tracks,  in  snow 
Dressed  for  their  sleds,  the  lumbering  woodmen  plough. 

How  soft  yon  sunbeam  paints  the  hoary  trunk, 
How  fine  the  glimmering  leaves  to  shadow  sunk ! 
Then  streams  across  our  grassy  road  the  line 
Drawn  firmly  on  the  sward  by  the  straight  pine ; 
And  curving  swells  in  front  our  feet  allure, 
While  far  behind  the  curving  swells  endure ; 
Silent,  if  half  pervaded  by  the  hum 
Of  the  contented  cricket.  Nature's  sum 
Is  infinite  devotion.  Days  nor  time 
She  emulates,  —  nurse  of  a  perfect  prime. 

[348] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Herself  the  spell,  free  to  all  hearts ;  the  spring 
Of  multiplied  contentment,  if  the  ring 
With  which  we  're  darkly  bound. 

The  pleasant  road 

Winds  as  if  Beauty  here  familiar  trode ; 
Her  touch  the  devious  curve  persuasive  laid, 
Her  tranquil  forethought  each  bright  primrose  stayed 
In  its  right  nook.  And  where  the  glorious  sky 
Shines  in,  and  bathes  the  verdant  canopy, 
The  prospect  smiles  delighted,  while  the  day 
Contemns  the  village  street  and  white  highway. 

Creature  all  beauteous !  In  thy  future  state 
Let  beauteous  Thought  a  just  contrivance  date ; 
Let  altars  glance  along  thy  lonely  shore, 
Relumed ;  and  on  thy  leafy  forest  floor 
Tributes  be  strewn  to  some  divinity 
Of  cheerful  mien  and  rural  sanctity. 
Pilgrims  might  dancing  troop  their  souls  to  heal ; 
Cordials,  that  now  the  shady  coves  conceal, 
Reft  from  thy  crystal  shelves,  we  should  behold, 
And  by  their  uses  be  thy  charms  controlled. 

Naught  save  the  sallow  herdsboy  tempts  the  shore, 
His  charge  neglecting,  while  his  feet  explore 
Thy  shallow  margins,  when  the  August  flame 
Burns  on  thy  edge  and  makes  existence  tame ; 
Naught  save  the  blue  king-fisher  rattling  past, 
Or  leaping  fry  that  breaks  his  lengthened  fast ; 
Naught  save  the  falling  hues  when  Autumn's  sigh 
Beguiles  the  maple  to  a  sad  reply ; 
Or  some  peculiar  air  a  sapless  leaf 
Guides  o'er  thy  ocean  by  its  compass  brief. 

Save  one,  whom  often  here  glad  Nature  found 
Seated  beneath  yon  thorn,  or  on  the  ground 

[  349  ] 


THOREAU 

Poring  content,  when  frosty  Autumn  bore 
Of  wilding  fruit  to  earth  that  bitter  store ; 
And  when  the  building  winter  spanned  in  ice 
Thy  trembling  limbs,  soft  lake !  then  each  device 
Traced  in  white  figures  on  thy  seamed  expanse 
This  child  of  problems  caught  in  gleeful  trance. 

Oh,  welcome  he  to  thrush  and  various  jay, 
And  echoing  veery,  period  of  the  day ! 
To  each  clear  hyla  trilling  the  new  spring, 
And  late  gray  goose  buoyed  on  his  icy  wing ; 
Bold  walnut-buds  admire  the  gentle  hand, 
While  the  shy  sassafras  their  rings  expand 
On  his  approach,  and  thy  green  forest  wave, 
White  Pond !  to  him  fraternal  greetings  gave. 
The  far  white  clouds  that  fringe  the  topmost  pine 
For  his  delight  their  fleecy  folds  decline ; 
The  sunset  worlds  melted  their  ores  for  him, 
And  lightning  touched  his  thought  to  seraphim. 

Clear  wave,  thou  wert  not  vainly  made,  I  know, 
Since  this  sweet  man  of  Nature  thee  could  owe 
A  genial  hour,  some  hope  that  flies  afar, 
And  revelations  from  thy  guiding  star. 
Oh,  may  that  muse,  of  purer  ray,  recount, 
White  Pond !  thy  glory ;  and,  while  anthems  mount 
In  strains  of  splendor,  rich  as  sky  and  air, 
Thy  praise,  my  Henry,  might  those  verses  share. 
For  He  who  made  the  lake  made  it  for  thee, 
So  good  and  great,  so  humble,  yet  so  free ; 
And  waves  and  woods  we  cannot  fairly  prove, 
Like  souls,  descended  from  celestial  Jove. 

With  thee  he  is  associate.  Hence  I  love 

Thy  gleams,  White  Pond !  thy  dark,  familiar  grove ; 

[  350  ] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Thy  deep  green  shadows,  clefts  of  pasture  ground ; 

Mayhap  a  distant  bleat  the  single  sound, 

One  distant  cloud,  the  sailor  of  the  sky, 

One  voice,  to  which  my  inmost  thoughts  reply. 


Ill 
A     LAMENT 

A  WAIL  for  the  dead  and  the  dying ! 

They  fall  in  the  wind  through  the  Gilead  tree, 

Off  the  sunset's  gold,  off  hill  and  sea ; 
They  fall  on  the  grave  where  thou  art  lying, 
Like  a  voice  of  woe,  like  a  woman  sighing, 

Moaning  her  buried,  her  broken  love, 

Never  more  joy, — never  on  earth,  never  in  heaven  above ! 

Ah,  me !  was  it  for  this  I  came  here  ? 
Christ!  didst  thou  die  that  for  this  I  might  live? 

An  anguish,  a  grief  like  the  heart  o'er  the  bier,  — 
Grief  that  I  cannot  bury,  nor  against  it  can  strive,  — 
Life-long  to  haunt  me,  while  breath  brings  to-morrow, 
Falling  in  spring  and  in  winter,  rain  and  sleet  sorrow, 
Prest  from  my  fate  that  its  future  ne'er  telleth, 
Spring  from  the  unknown  that  ever  more  welleth. 

Fair,  O  my  fields !  soft,  too,  your  hours ! 
Mother  of  Earth,  thou  art  pleasant  to  see ! 

I  walk  o'er  thy  sands,  and  I  bend  o'er  thy  flowers. 
There  is  nothing,  O  nothing,  thou  givest  me, 
Nothing,  O  nothing,  I  take  from  thee. 
What  are  thy  heavens,  so  blue  and  so  fleeting? 
Storm,  if  I  reck  not,  no  echo  meeting 
In  this  cold  heart,  that  is  dead  to  its  beating, 
Caring  for  nothing,  parting  or  greeting ! 

[351] 


THOREAU 

IV 

MORRICE    LAKE 

(  Written  f or  E.  S.  Hotham.) 

ON  Morrice  Lake  I  saw  the  heron  flit 
And  the  wild  wood-duck  from  her  summer  perch 
Scale  painted  by,  trim  in  her  plumes,  all  joy ; 
And  the  old  mottled  frog  repeat  his  bass, 
Song  of  our  mother  Earth,  the  child  so  dear. 
There,  in  the  stillness  of  the  forest's  night, 
Naught  but  the  interrupted  sigh  of  the  breeze, 
Or  the  far  panther's  cry,  that,  o'er  the  lake, 
Touched  with  its  sudden  irony  and  woke 
The  sleeping  shore ;  and  then  I  hear  its  crash, 
Its  deep  alarm-gun  on  the  speechless  night,  — 
A  falling  tree,  hymn  of  the  centuries. 

No  sadness  haunts  the  happy  lover's  mind, 
On  thy  lone  shores,  thou  anthem  of  the  woods, 
Singing  her  calm  reflections ;  the  tall  pines, 
The  sleeping  hill-side  and  the  distant  sky, 
And  thou !  the  sweetest  figure  in  the  scene, 
Truest  and  best,  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

O  Thou,  the  ruler  of  these  forest  shades, 
And  by  thy  inspiration  who  controll'st 
The  wild  tornado  in  its  narrow  path, 
And  deck'st  with  fairy  wavelets  the  small  breeze, 
That  like  some  lover's  sigh  entreats  the  lake ; 
O  Thou,  who  in  the  shelter  of  these  groves 
Build'st  up  the  life  of  nature,  as  a  truth 
Taught  to  dim  shepherds  on  their  star-lit  plains, 
Outwatching  midnight ;  who  in  these  deep  shades 

[  352  ] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Secur'st  the  bear  and  catamount  a  place, 

Safe  from  the  glare  of  the  infernal  gun, 

And  leav'st  the  finny  race  their  pebbled  home, 

Domed  with  thy  watery  sunshine,  as  a  mosque ; 

God  of  the  solitudes !  kind  to  each  thing 

That  creeps  or  flies,  or  launches  forth  its  webs,  — 

Lord !  in  thy  mercies,  Father !  in  thy  heart, 

Cherish  thy  wanderer  in  these  sacred  groves ; 

Thy  spirit  send  as  erst  o'er  Jordan's  stream, 

Spirit  and  love  and  mercy  for  his  needs. 

Console  him  with  thy  seasons  as  they  pass, 

And  with  an  unspent  joy  attune  his  soul 

To  endless  rapture.  Be  to  him,  —  thyself 

Beyond  all  sensual  things  that  please  the  eye, 

Locked  in  his  inmost  being ;  let  no  dread, 

Nor  storm  with  its  wild  splendors,  nor  the  tomb, 

Nor  all  that  human  hearts  can  sear  or  scar, 

Or  cold  forgetfulness  that  withers  hope, 

Or  base  undoing  of  all  human  love, 

Or  those  faint  sneers  that  pride  and  riches  cast 

On  unrewarded  merit,— be,  to  him, 

Save  as  the  echo  from  uncounted  depths 

Of  an  unfathomable  past,  burying 

All  present  griefs. 

Be  merciful,  be  kind ! 
Has  he  not  striven,  true  and  pure  of  heart, 
Trusting  in  thee?  Oh,  falter  not,  my  child ! 
Great  store  of  recompense  thy  future  holds, 
Thy  love's  sweet  councils  and  those  faithful  hearts 
Never  to  be  estranged,  that  know  thy  worth. 


[  353 


THOREAU 


TEARS    IN     SPRING 

THE  swallow  is  flying  over, 

But  he  will  not  come  to  me ; 

He  flits,  my  daring  rover, 

From  land  to  land,  from  sea  to  sea; 

Where  hot  Bermuda's  reef 

Its  barrier  lifts  to  fortify  the  shore, 

Above  the  surfs  wild  roar 

He  darts  as  swiftly  o'er,  — 

But  he  who  heard  that  cry  of  spring 

Hears  that  no  more,  heeds  not  his  wing. 

How  bright  the  skies  that  dally 

Along  day's  cheerful  arch, 

And  paint  the  sunset  valley ! 

How  redly  buds  the  larch ! 

Blackbirds  are  singing, 

Clear  hylas  ringing, 

Over  the  meadow  the  frogs  proclaim 

The  coming  of  Spring  to  boy  and  dame, 

But  not  to  me,  — 

Nor  thee ! 

And  golden  crowfoot 's  shining  near, 
Spring  everywhere  that  shoots  't  is  clear, 
A  wail  in  the  wind  is  all  I  hear ; 
A  voice  of  woe  for  a  lover's  loss, 
A  motto  for  a  travelling  cross,  — 
And  yet  it  is  mean  to  mourn  for  thee, 
In  the  form  of  bird  or  blossom  or  bee. 


[  354  ] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Cold  are  the  sods  of  the  valley  to-day 

Where  thou  art  sleeping, 

That  took  thee  back  to  thy  native  clay  ; 

Cold, — if  above  thee  the  grass  is  peeping 

And  the  patient  sunlight  creeping, 

While  the  bluebird  sits  on  the  locust-bough 

Whose  shadow  is  painted  across  thy  brow, 

And  carols  his  welcome  so  sad  and  sweet 

To  the  Spring  that  comes  and  kisses  his  feet. 


VI 
THE    MILL    BROOKi 

THE  cobwebs  close  are  pencils  of  meal, 

Painting  the  beams  unsound, 
And  the  bubbles  varnish  the  glittering  wheel 

As  it  rumbles  round  and  round. 
Then  the  Brook  began  to  talk 

And  the  water  found  a  tongue, 
"We  have  danced  a  long  dance,"  said  the  gossip, 

"A  long  way  have  we  danced  and  sung." 

"Rocked  in  a  cradle  of  sanded  stone 

Our  waters  wavered  ages  alone, 

Then  glittered  at  the  spring 

On  whose  banks  the  feather-ferns  cling; 

Down  jagged  ravines 

We  fled  tortured, 

And  our  wild  eddies  nurtured 

Their  black  hemlock  screens ; 

And  o'er  the  soft  meadows  we  rippled  along, 

And  soothed  their  lone  hours  with  a  pensive  song,  — 

1  One  of  the  most  labored  pieces  lever  wrote.  But  it  was  not  helped  by  work.  W.  E.  C. 

[  355  ] 


THOREAU 

Now  at  this  mill  we  're  plagued  to  stop, 
To  let  our  miller  grind  the  crop. 

"See  the  clumsy  farmers  come 

With  jolting  wagons  far  from  home ; 

We  grind  their  grist, 

It  wearied  a  season  to  raise, 

Weeks  of  sunlight  and  weeks  of  mist, 

Days  for  the  drudge  and  Holydays. 

To  me  it  fatal  seems, 

Thus  to  kill  a  splendid  summer, 

And  cover  a  landscape  of  dreams 

In  the  acre  of  work  and  not  murmur. 

I  could  lead  them  where  berries  grew, 

Sweet  flag-root  and  gentian  blue, 

And  they  will  not  come  and  laugh  with  me, 

Where  my  water  sings  in  its  joyful  glee ; 

Yet  small  the  profit,  and  short-lived  for  them, 

Blown  from  Fate's  whistle  like  flecks  of  steam. 

"The  old  mill  counts  a  few  short  years,  — 

Ever  my  rushing  water  steers ! 

It  glazed  the  starving  Indian's  red, 

On  despair  or  pumpkin  fed, 

And  oceans  of  turtle  notched  ere  he  came, 

Species  consumptive  to  Latin  and  fame, 

(Molluscous  dear  or  orphan  fry, 

Sweet  to  Nature,  I  know  not  why). 

"Thoughtful  critics  say  that  I 
From  yon  mill-dam  draw  supply.  — 
I  cap  the  scornful  Alpine  heads, 
Amazons  and  seas  have  beds, 
But  I  am  their  trust  and  lord. 
Me  ye  quaff  by  bank  and  board, 

[  356  ] 


MEMORIAL    VERSES 

Me  ye  pledge  the  iron-horse, 
I  float  Lowells  in  my  source. 

44 The  farmers  lug  their  bags  and  say,— 
'Neighbor,  wilt  thou  grind  the  grist  to-day?' 
Grind  it  with  his  nervous  thumbs ! 
Clap  his  aching  shells  behind  it, 
Crush  it  into  crumbs  ! 

"No !  his  dashboards  from  the  wood 
Hum  the  dark  pine's  solitude ; 
Fractious  teeth  are  of  the  quarry 
That  I  crumble  in  a  hurry,  — 
Far-fetched  duty  is  to  me 
To  turn  this  old  wheel  carved  of  a  tree. 

"I  like  the  maples  on  my  side, 

Dead  leaves,  the  darting  trout ; 

Laconic  rocks  (they  sometime  put  me  out) 

And  moon  or  stars  that  ramble  with  my  tide; 

The  polished  air,  I  think  I  could  abide. 

"This  selfish  race  who  prove  me, 

Who  use,  but  do  not  love  me ! 

Their  undigested  meal 

Pays  not  my  labor  on  the  wheel. 

I  better  like  the  sparrow 

Who  sips  a  drop  at  morn, 

Than  the  men  who  vex  my  marrow, 

To  grind  their  cobs  and  corn." 

Then  said  I  to  my  brook,  "Thy  manners  mend! 
Thou  art  a  tax  on  earth  for  me  to  spend." 


[  357  ] 


THOREAU 

VII 
STILLRIVER,     THE     WINTER    WALKi 

THE  busy  city  or  the  heated  car, 

The  unthinking  crowd,  the  depot's  deafening  jar, 

These  me  befit  not,  but  the  snow-clad  hill 

From  whose  white  steeps  the  rushing  torrents  fill 

Their  pebbly  beds,  and  as  I  look  content 

At  the  red  Farmhouse  to  the  summit  lent, 

There, — underneath  that  hospitable  elm, 

The  broad  ancestral  tree,  that  is  the  helm 

To  sheltered  hearts,  — not  idly  ask  in  vain, 

Why  was  I  born,— the  heritage  of  pain? 

The  gliding  trains  desert  the  slippery  road, 

The  weary  drovers  wade  to  their  abode ; 

I  hear  the  factory  bell,  the  cheerful  peal 

That  drags  cheap  toil  from  many  a  hurried  meal. 

How  dazzling  on  the  hill-side  shines  the  crust, 

A  sheen  of  glory  unprofaned  by  dust ! 

And  where  thy  wave,  Stillriver,  glides  along, 

A  stream  of  Helicon  unknown  in  song, 

The  pensive  rocks  are  wreathed  in  snow-drifts  high 

That  glance  through  thy  soft  tones  like  witchery. 

To  Fancy  we  are  sometimes  company, 

And  Solitude 's  the  friendliest  face  we  see. 

Some  serious  village  slowly  through  I  pace, 

No  form  of  all  its  life  mine  own  to  trace ; 

Where  the  cross  mastiff  growls  with  blood-shot  eye, 

And  barks  and  growls  and  waits  courageously ; 

Its  peaceful  mansions  my  desire  allure 

1  From  Groton  Junction  (now  Ayer)  to  Lancaster  along  the  railroad. 

[  358  ] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Not  each  to  enter  and  its  fate  endure,  — 

But  Fancy  fills  the  window  with  its  guest ; 

The  laughing  maid, — her  swain  who  breaks  the  jest; 

The  solemn  spinster  staring  at  the  fire, 

Slow  fumbling  for  his  pipe,  her  solemn  sire ; 

The  loud-voiced  parson,  fat  with  holy  cheer, 

The  butcher  ruddy  as  the  atmosphere ; 

The  shop-boy  loitering  with  his  parcels  dull, 

The  rosy  school-girls  of  enchantment  full. 

Away  from  these  the  solitary  farm 
Has  for  the  mind  a  strange  domestic  charm, 
On  some  keen  winter  morning  when  the  snow 
Heaps  roof  and  casement,  lane  and  meadow  through. 
Yet  in  those  walls  how  many  a  heart  is  beating, 
What  spells  of  joy,  of  sorrow,  there  are  meeting! 
One  dreads  the  post,  as  much  the  next,  delay, 
Lest  precious  tidings  perish  on  their  way. 
The  graceful  Julia  sorrows  to  refuse 
Her  teacher's  mandate,  while  the  boy  let  loose 
Drags  out  his  sled  to  coast  the  tumbling  hill, 
Whence  from  the  topmost  height  to  the  low  rill, 
Shot  like  an  arrow  from  the  Indian's  bow, 
Downward  he  bursts,  life,  limb,  and  all  below 
The  maddening  joy  his  dangerous  impulse  gives; 
In  age,  how  slow  the  crazy  fact  revives ! 

Afar  I  track  the  railroad's  gradual  bend, 
I  feel  the  distance,  feel  the  silence  lend 
A  far  romantic  charm  to  farmhouse  still, 
And  spurn  the  road  that  plods  the  weary  hill,  — 
When  like  an  avalanche  the  thundering  car 
Whirls  past,  while  bank  and  rail  deplore  the  jar. 
The  wildly  piercing  whistle  through  my  ear 
Tells  me  I  fright  the  anxious  engineer ; 

[  359  ] 


THOREAU 

I  turn,  — the  distant  train  and  hurrying  bell 
Of  the  far  crossing  and  its  dangers  tell. 
And  yet  upon  the  hill-side  sleeps  the  farm, 
Nor  maid  or  man  or  boy  to  break  the  charm. 

Delightful  Girl !  youth  in  that  farmhouse  old, 

The  tender  darling  in  the  tender  fold,  — 

Thy  promised  hopes  fulfilled  as  Nature  sought, 

With  days  and  years,  the  income  of  thy  thought; 

Sweet  and  ne'er  cloying,  beautiful  yet  free, 

Of  truth  the  best,  of  utter  constancy ; 

Thy  cheek  whose  blush  the  mountain  wind  laid  on, 

Thy  mouth  whose  lips  were  rosebuds  in  the  sun ; 

Thy  bending  neck,  the  graces  of  thy  form, 

Where  art  could  heighten,  but  ne'er  spoil  the  charm ; 

Pride  of  the  village  school  for  thy  pure  word, 

Thy  pearls  alone  those  glistening  sounds  afford ; 

Sure  in  devotion,  guileless  and  content, 

The  old  farmhouse  is  thy  right  element. 

Constance !  such  maids  as  thou  delight  the  eye, 

In  all  the  Nashua's  vales  that  round  me  lie ! 

And  thus  thy  brother  was  the  man  no  less,  — 
Bred  of  the  fields  and  with  the  wind's  impress. 
With  hand  as  open  as  his  heart  was  free, 
Of  strength  half-fabled  mixed  with  dignity. 
Kind  as  a  boy,  he  petted  dog  and  hen, 
Coaxed  his  slow  steers,  nor  scared  the  crested  wren. 
And  not  far  off  the  spicy  farming  sage, 
Twisted  with  heat  and  cold,  and  cramped  with  age, 
Who  grunts  at  all  the  sunlight  through  the  year 
And  springs  from  bed  each  morning  with  a  cheer. 
Of  all  his  neighbors  he  can  something  tell,  — 
'Tis  bad,  whate'er,  we  know,  and  like  it  well! — 

[  360  ] 


MEMORIAL    VERSES 

The  bluebird's  song  he  hears  the  first  in  spring, 
Shoots  the  last  goose  bound  South  on  freezing  wing. 

Ploughed  and  unploughed  the  fields  look  all  the  same, 

White  as  the  youth's  first  love  or  ancient's  fame ; 

Alone  the  chopper's  axe  awakes  the  hills, 

And  echoing  snap  the  ice-encumbered  rills ; 

Deep  in  the  snow  he  wields  the  shining  tool, 

Nor  dreads  the  icy  blast,  himself  as  cool. 

Seek  not  the  parlor,  nor  the  den  of  state 

For  heroes  brave ;  make  up  thy  estimate 

From  these  tough  bumpkins  clad  in  country  mail, 

Free  as  their  air  and  full  without  detail. 

No  gothic  arch  our  shingle  Paestum  boasts,  — 
Its  pine  cathedral  is  the  style  of  posts,  — 
No  crumbling  abbey  draws  the  tourist  there 
To  trace  through  ivied  windows  pictures  rare, 
Nor  the  first  village  squire  allows  his  name 
From  aught  illustrious  or  debauched  by  fame. 

That  sponge  profane  who  drains  away  the  bar 
Of  yon  poor  inn  extracts  the  mob's  huzza ; 
Conscious  of  morals  lofty  as  their  own, 
The  glorious  Democrat,— his  life  a  loan. 
And  mark  the  preacher  nodding  o'er  the  creed, 
With  wooden  text,  his  heart  too  soft  to  bleed. 
The  jEsculapius  of  this  little  State, 
A  typhus-sage,  sugars  his  pills  in  fate, 
Buries  three  patients  to  adorn  his  gig, 
Buys  foundered  dobbins  or  consumptive  pig ; 
His  wealthy  pets  he  kindly  thins  away, 
Gets  in  their  wills, — and  ends  them  in  a  day. 
Nor  shall  the  strong  schoolmaster  be  forgot, 
With  fatal  eye,  who  boils  the  grammar-pot : 

[361  ] 


THOREAU 

Blessed  with  large  arms  he  deals  contusions  round, 
While  even  himself  his  awful  hits  confound. 

Pregnant  the  hour  when  at  the  tailor's  store, 
Some  dusty  Bob  a  mail  bangs  through  the  door. 
Sleek  with  good  living,  virtuous  as  the  Jews, 
The  village  squires  look  wise,  desire  the  news. 
The  paper  come,  one  reads  the  falsehood  there, 
A  trial  lawyer,  lank-jawed  as  despair. 
Here,  too,  the  small  oblivious  deacon  sits, 
Once  gross  with  proverbs,  now  devoid  of  wits, 
And  still  by  courtesy  he  feebly  moans, 
Threadbare  injunctions  in  more  threadbare  tones. 
Sly  yet  demure,  the  eager  babes  crowd  in, 
Pretty  as  angels,  ripe  in  pretty  sin. 
And  the  postmaster,  suction-hose  from  birth, 
The  hardest  and  the  tightest  screw  on  earth ; 
His  price  as  pungent  as  his  hyson  green, 
His  measure  heavy  on  the  scale  of  lean. 

A  truce  to  these  aspersions,  as  I  see 
The  winter's  orb  burn  through  yon  leafless  tree, 
Where  far  beneath  the  track  Stillriver  runs, 
And  the  vast  hill-side  makes  a  thousand  suns. 
This  crystal  air,  this  soothing  orange  sky, 
Possess  our  lives  with  their  rich  sorcery. 
We  thankful  muse  on  that  superior  Power 
That  with  his  splendor  loads  the  sunset  hour, 
And  by  the  glimmering  streams  and  solemn  woods 
In  glory  walks  and  charms  our  solitudes. 

O'er  the  far  intervale  that  dimly  lies 

In  snowy  regions  placid  as  the  skies, 

Some  northern  breeze  awakes  the  sleeping  field, 

And  like  enchanted  smoke  the  great  drifts  yield 

[  362  ] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Their  snowy  curtains  to  the  restless  air ; 
Then  build  again  for  architect's  despair 
The  alabaster  cornice  or  smooth  scroll 
That  the  next  moment  in  new  forms  unroll. 


VIII 
TRURO 

I 

TEN  steps  it  lies  from  off  the  sea, 

Whose  angry  breakers  score  the  sand, 
A  valley  of  the  sleeping  land, 

Where  chirps  the  cricket  quietly. 

The  aster's  bloom,  the  copses'  green, 
Grow  darker  in  the  softened  sun, 
And  silent  here  day's  course  is  run, 

A  sheltered  spot  that  smiles  serene. 

It  reaches  far  from  shore  to  shore, 
Nor  house  in  sight,  nor  ship  or  wave, 
A  silent  valley  sweet  and  grave, 

A  refuge  from  the  sea's  wild  roar. 

Nor  gaze  from  yonder  gravelly  height,  — 
Beneath,  the  crashing  billows  beat, 
The  rolling  surge  of  tempests  meet 

The  breakers  in  their  awful  might.  — 

And  inland  birds  soft  warble  here, 
Where  golden-rods  and  yarrow  shine, 
And  cattle  pasture — sparest  kine! 

A  rural  place  for  homestead  dear. 

[  363  ] 


THOREAU 

Go  not  then,  traveller,  nigh  the  shore ! 

In  this  soft  valley  muse  content, 

Nor  brave  the  cruel  element, 
That  thunders  at  the  valley's  door. 

And  bless  the  little  human  dell, 

The  sheltered  copsewood  snug  and  warm, 
Retreat  from  yon  funereal  form, 

Nor  tempt  the  booming  surges'  knell. 


II 
THE     OLD     WRECKER 

He  muses  slow  along  the  shore, 
A  stooping  form,  his  wrinkled  face 
Bronzed  dark  with  storm,  no  softer  grace 

Of  hope ;  old,  even  to  the  core. 

He  heeds  not  ocean's  wild  lament, 
No  breaking  seas  that  sight  appall,  — 
The  storms  he  likes,  and  as  they  fall 

His  gaze  grows  eager,  seaward  bent. 

He  grasps  at  all,  e'en  scraps  of  twine, 
None  is  too  small,  and  if  some  ship 
Her  bones  beneath  the  breakers  dip, 

He  loiters  on  his  sandy  line. 

Lonely  as  ocean  is  his  mien, 
He  sorrows  not,  nor  questions  fate, 
Unsought,  is  never  desolate, 

Nor  feels  his  lot,  nor  shifts  the  scene. 

Weary  he  drags  the  sinking  beach, 
Undaunted  by  the  cruel  strife, 

[364] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Alive,  yet  not  the  thing  of  life, 
A  shipwrecked  ghost  that  haunts  the  reach. 

He  breathes  the  spoil  of  wreck  and  sea, 
No  longer  to  himself  belongs, 
Always  within  his  ear  thy  songs, 

Unresting  Ocean !  bound  yet  free. 

In  hut  and  garden  all  the  same, 
Cheerless  and  slow,  beneath  content, 
The  miser  of  an  element 

Without  a  heart, — that  none  can  claim. 

Born  for  thy  friend,  O  sullen  wave, 

Clasping  the  earth  where  none  may  stand ! 
He  clutches  with  a  trembling  hand 

The  headstones  from  the  sailor's  grave. 


Ill 
OPEN     OCEAN 

Unceasing  roll  the  deep  green  waves, 
And  crash  their  cannon  down  the  sand, 
The  tyrants  of  the  patient  land, 

Where  mariners  hope  not  for  graves. 

The  purple  kelp  waves  to  and  fro, 

The  white  gulls,  curving,  scream  along ; 
They  fear  not  thy  funereal  song, 

Nor  the  long  surf  that  combs  to  snow. 

The  hurrying  foam  deserts  the  sand, 
Afar  the  low  clouds  sadly  hang, 
But  the  high  sea  with  sullen  clang, 

Still  rages  for  the  silent  land. 

[  365  ] 


THOREAU 

No  human  hope  or  love  hast  thou, 

Unfeeling  Ocean !  in  thy  might, 

Away — I  fly  the  awful  sight, 
The  working  of  that  moody  brow. 

The  placid  sun  of  autumn  shines,  — 
The  hurrying  knell  marks  no  decline, 
The  rush  of  waves,  the  war  of  brine, 

Force  all,  and  grandeur,  in  thy  lines. 

Could  the  lone  sand-bird  once  enjoy 
Some  mossy  dell,  some  rippling  brooks, 
The  fruitful  scent  of  orchard  nooks, 

The  loved  retreat  of  maid  or  boy ! 

No,  no ;  the  curling  billows  green, 
The  cruel  surf,  the  drifting  sand, 
No  flowers  or  grassy  meadow-land, 

No  kiss  of  seasons  linked  between. 

The  mighty  roar,  the  burdened  soul, 
The  war  of  waters  more  and  more, 
The  waves,  with  crested  foam-wreaths  hoar, 

Rolling  to-day,  and  on  to  roll. 


IV 
WINDMILL     ON     THE     COAST 

With  wreck  of  ships,  and  drifting  plank, 
Uncouth  and  cumbrous,  wert  thou  built, 
Spoil  of  the  sea's  unfathomed  guilt, 

Whose  dark  revenges  thou  hast  drank. 

And  loads  thy  sail  the  lonely  wind, 
That  wafts  the  sailor  o'er  the  deep, 

[  366  ] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Compels  thy  rushing  arms  to  sweep, 
And  earth's  dull  harvesting  to  grind. 

Here  strides  the  fisher  lass  and  brings 
Her  heavy  sack,  while  creatures  small, 
Loaded  with  bag  and  pail,  recall 

The  youthful  joy  that  works  in  things. 

The  winds  grind  out  the  bread  of  life, 
The  ceaseless  breeze  torments  the  stone, 
The  mill  yet  hears  the  ocean's  moan, 

Her  beams  the  refuse  of  that  strife. 


ETERNAL     SEA 

I  hear  the  distant  tolling  bell, 
The  echo  of  the  breathless  sea ; 
Bound  in  a  human  sympathy 

Those  sullen  strokes  no  tidings  tell. 

The  spotted  sea-bird  skims  along, 
And  fisher-boats  dash  proudly  by ; 
I  hear  alone  that  savage  cry, 

That  endless  and  unfeeling  song. 

Within  thee  beats  no  answering  heart, 
Cold  and  deceitful  to  my  race, 
The  skies  alone  adorn  with  grace 

Thy  freezing  waves,  or  touch  with  art. 

And  man  must  fade,  but  thou  shalt  roll 
Deserted,  vast,  and  yet  more  grand ; 
While  thy  cold  surges  beat  the  strand, 

Thy  funeral  bells  ne'er  cease  to  toll. 

[367] 


THOREAU 

VI 
MICHEL     ANGELO AN     INCIDENT 

Hard  by  the  shore  the  cottage  stands, 
A  desert  spot,  a  fisher's  house, 
There  could  a  hermit  keep  carouse 

On  turnip-sprouts  from  barren  sands. 

No  church  or  statue  greets  the  view, 
Not  Pisa's  tower  or  Rome's  high  wall; 
And  connoisseurs  may  vainly  call 

For  Berghem's  goat,  or  Breughel's  blue. 

Yet  meets  the  eye  along  a  shed, 
Blazing  with  golden  splendors  rare, 
A  name  to  many  souls  like  prayer, 

Robbed  from  a  hero  of  the  dead. 

It  glittered  far,  the  splendid  name, 
Thy  letters,  Michel  Angelo,— 
In  this  lone  spot  none  e'er  can  know 

The  thrills  of  joy  that  o'er  me  came. 

Some  bark  that  slid  along  the  main 

Dropped  off  her  headboard,  and  the  sea 
Plunging  it  landwards,  in  the  lee 

Of  these  high  cliffs  it  took  the  lane. 

But  ne'er  that  famous  Florentine 
Had  dreamed  of  such  a  fate  as  this, 
Where  tolling  seas  his  name  may  kiss, 

And  curls  the  lonely  sand-strewn  brine. 

These  fearless  waves,  this  mighty  sea, 
Old  Michel,  bravely  bear  thy  name  ! 
Like  thee,  no  rules  can  render  tame, 

Fatal  and  grand  and  sure  like  thee. 

[  368  ] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

VII 
OLD     OCEAN 

Of  what  thou  dost,  I  think,  not  art, 
Thy  sparkling  air  and  matchless  force, 
Untouched  in  thy  own  wild  resource, 

The  tide  of  a  superior  heart. 

No  human  love  beats  warm  below. 

Great  monarch  of  the  weltering  waste ! 
The  fisher-boats  make  sail  and  haste, 

Thou  art  their  savior  and  their  foe. 

Alone  the  breeze  thy  rival  proves, 

Smoothing  o'er  thee  his  graceful  hand, 
Lord  of  that  empire  over  land, 

He  moves  thy  hatred  and  thy  loves. 

Yet  thy  unwearied  plunging  swell, 

Still  breaking,  charms  the  sandy  reach, 
No  dweller  on  the  shifting  beach, 

No  auditor  of  thy  deep  knell;  — 

The  sunny  wave,  a  soft  caress ; 

The  gleaming  ebb,  the  parting  day; 

The  waves  like  tender  buds  in  May, 
A  fit  retreat  for  blessedness. 

And  breathed  a  sigh  like  children's  prayers, 

Across  thy  light  aerial  blue, 

That  might  have  softened  wretches  too, 
Until  they  dallied  with  these  airs. 

Was  there  no  flitting  to  thy  mood? 

Was  all  this  bliss  and  love  to  last? 

No  lighthouse  by  thy  stormy  past, 
No  graveyard  in  thy  solitude ! 

[  369  ] 


THOREAU 
IX 

BAKER    FARMi 

THY  entry  is  a  pleasant  field, 
Which  some  mossy  fruit-trees  yield 
Partly  to  a  ruddy  brook, 
By  gliding  musquash  undertook, 
And  the  small,  mercurial  trout 
That  dart  about. 

Cell  of  seclusion, 

Haunt  of  old  Time! 

Rid  of  confusion, 

Vacant  of  crime ; 

Landscape  where  the  richest  element 

Is  a  little  sunshine  innocent : 

In  thy  insidious  marsh, 

In  thy  ancestral  wood, 

Thy  artless  meadow 

And  forked  orchard's  writhing  mood,  — 

O  Baker  Farm ! 

There  lies  in  thee  a  fourfold  charm. 

Alien  art  thou  to  God  and  Devil ! 
Man  too  forsaketh  thee ; 
No  one  runs  to  revel 
On  thy  rail-fenced  lea, 
Save  gleaning  Silence  bearded  gray, 
Who  frozen  apples  steals  away, 
Thinnest  jars  of  Winter's  jam, 
Which  he  '11  with  gipsy  sugar  cram. 

1  In  18$,  when  this  poem  was  written,  the  retreat  here  celebrated  was  a  most  retired  spot,  the  out- 
lands  on  Fairhaven  Bay  of  James  Baker's  large  farm  in  Lincoln,  two  miles  southeast  of  Concord 
Village,  and  a  mile  or  so  from  Thoreau's  Cove  and  cabin,  then  standing  and  but  lately  deserted 
by  Henry.  It  is  now  the  frontage  of  C.  F.  Adams's  villa.  F.  B.  S.,  1902. 


[  370  ] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Thou  art  expunged  from  To-day, 

Rigid  in  parks  of  thine  own, 

Where  soberly  shifts  the  play, 

As  the  wind  sighs  a  monotone ; 

But  west  trends  blue  Fairhaven  Bay, 

Green  o'er  whose  rocks  the  white  pines  sway; 

And  south  slopes  Nobscot  grand, 

And  north  our  still  Cliffs  stand. 

And  here  a  Poet  builded 
In  the  completed  years ; 
Behold  a  trivial  cabin 
That  to  destruction  steers ! 
Should  we  judge  it  built? 
Rather  by  kind  Nature  spilt; 
Henry,  with  his  alphabet 
Of  the  Past,  this  task  could  set. 

Pan  of  unwrinkled  cream, 

May  some  Poet  dash  thee  in  his  churn ! 

And  with  thy  beauty  mad, 

Verse  thee  in  rhymes  that  burn ! 

Railroad  defier, 

No  man's  desire; 

Unspeculative  place, 

With  that  demurest  face, 

How  long  art  thou  to  be 

Absolute  in  thy  degree? 

I  would  hint  at  thy  religion, 

Hadst  thou  any,  — 

Piny  fastness  of  the  pigeon, 

Squirrel's  litany ! 

Here  the  cawing,  sable  rook 

[371  ] 


THOREAU 

Never  thumbed  a  gilt  Prayer-Book 
In  this  ante-Christian  nook : 
Set  a  priest  at  praying  here, 
He  would  go  to  sleep  I  fear. 

Art  thou  orphaned  of  a  deed, 

Or  title  that  a  court  could  read? 

Or  dost  thou  stand 

For  that  entertaining  land 

That  no  man  owns, 

Pure  grass  and  stones, 

In  thy  drying  field, 

And  thy  knotty  trees, 

In  hassock  and  bield, 

And  marshes  that  freeze? 

Simpleness  is  all  thy  teaching  ; 
Idleness  is  all  the  preaching, 
Churches  are  these  steepled  woods, 
Galleries  these  green  solitudes, 
Fretted  never  by  a  noise,  — 
Eloquence  that  each  enjoys. 
Debate  with  none  hast  thou, 
With  questions  ne'er  perplexed ; 
As  tame  at  the  first  sight  as  now, 
In  thy  plain  russet  gaberdine  drest. 

Come  ye  who  love, 

And  ye  who  hate ! 

Children  of  the  Holy  Dove, 

And  Guy  Faux  of  the  State; 

Come,  hang  conspiracies 

From  the  tough  rafters  of  the  trees ! 

One  at  a  time,  — 

That  is  enough ; 

[  372] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Two  will  not  rhyme, 
But  make  the  roadway  rough ; 

One  at  a  time, 

With  interspace  sublime,  — 
Before  each  of  you  go 

A  century  or  so ! 

Still  Baker  Farm ! 

So  fair  a  lesson  thou  dost  set, 

With  loving  eyes 

Commensurately  wise,  — 
Lesson  no  one  may  forget. 
Consistent  sanctity,  — 
Value  that  can  ne'er  be  spent, 
Volume  that  cannot  be  lent ; 

Passable  to  thee, 

And  me,  — 
For  Heaven  thou  art  meant ! 


FLIGHT    OF    GEESE1 

RAMBLING  along  the  marshes 
On  the  bank  of  the  Assabet, 
Sounding  myself  as  to  how  it  went,  — 
Praying  I  might  not  forget, 
And  all  uncertain 
Whether  I  was  in  the  right, 
Toiling  to  lift  Time's  curtain,  — 
And  if  I  burnt  the  strongest  light,  — 

1  Written  in  18^8,  but  kept  in  manuscript  for  years  by  Emerson,  as  he  told  me,  hoping  to  find 
the  best  word  for  the  honking  cry  of  the  wild  goose,  to  use  as  a  chorus  to  each  stanza.  At  latt  he 
printed  it  in  his  "Parnassus." 


[  373  ] 


THOREAU 

Suddenly,  high  in  the  air, 

I  heard  the  travelled  geese  their  overture  prepare. 

High  above  the  patent  ball 

The  wild  geese  flew; 

Not  half  so  wild  as  what  doth  me  befall, 

Or,  swollen  Wisdom !  you. 

Th'  indifferent  geese 

Seemed  to  have  taken  the  air  on  lease. 

In  the  front  there  fetched  a  leader,  — 
Him  behind  the  line  spread  out, 

And  waved  about ; 
For  it  was  near  night, 
When  these  air-pilots  stop  their  flight. 

Southward  went 

These  geese  indifferent,  — 

South  and  south  and  south,  — 

Steered  by  their  indifference,  — 

Slowly  falling  from  their  mouth 

A  creaking  sense ; 

Still  they  south  would  go, 

Leaving  me  in  wonder  at  the  show. 

From  some  Labrador  lagoon 

They  creaked  along  to  the  old  tune. 

Cruising  off  the  shoal  dominion 

Where  we  sit,  — 
Depending  not  on  mere  opinion, 

Nor  hiving  crumbs  of  wit, 
Geographical  by  tact, 
Naming  not  a  pond  or  river ; 
Pulled  with  twilight  down,  in  fact, 
In  the  reeds  to  quack  and  quiver,  — 

There  they  go, 

[374] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

Spectators  of  the  play  below, 
Southward  in  a  row. 

These  indifferent  geese 

Cannot  stop  to  count  the  stars, 

Nor  taste  the  sweetmeats  in  odd  jars, 

Nor  speculate  and  freeze. 
Raucous  weasands  needs  be  well, 
Feathers  glossy,  quills  in  order ; 
Starts  their  train,  — yet  rings  no  bell,  — 
Steam  is  raised  without  recorder. 

"Up,  my  merrymen,  feathered  all!" 
Saith  the  goose-commander ; 
"  Brighten  bills  and  flirt  your  pinions ! 
My  toes  are  nipt,  —  so  let  us  render 
Ourselves  into  soft  Campeachy ! 
'T  is  too  cold  in  brisk  Spitsbergen, 
And  the  waters  are  not  leechy." 

"Flap  your  wings,  my  stiff  companions ! 
Air-sailors !  clap  your  helm  hard  down ! 
Give  one  push,  and  we  shall  clatter 
Over  river,  wood,  and  town  ! 
By  our  stomachs  do  we  know 
Where  we  'd  best  for  supper  go. 

"Let's  brush  loose  for  any  creek 
Where  lurk  fish  and  fly ! 
Condiments  to  fat  the  weak 
Inundate  the  pie. 
Flutter  not  about  a  place, 
Ye  concomitants  of  Space ! " 

Creak  away ! 
Start  well  in  advance  of  Day ! 

[375] 


THOREAU 

Creak  and  clatter  as  you  go, 
Mortality  sleeps  sound  below ! 
Mute  shall  listening  nations  stand 
On  that  dark,  receding  land ; 
Faint  their  villages  and  towns 
Scattered  o'er  the  misty  downs ; 
Named,  divided,  tethered  cattle, 
Dulled  by  peace,  and  spilt  in  battle. 

As  thus  I  stood, 

Much  did  it  puzzle  me ; 

And  I  was  glued 

Speechless  by  this  mystery ; 

How  that  thus  from  Labrador 

Screeching  geese  flew  south  so  far,  — 
How  in  the  unfenced  air 
They  should  so  nimbly  fare, 

Drawn  along  yearly  in  a  narrow  line, 

The  midst  of  an  experiment?  or  the  confine? 

"How  long?" 

Never  is  that  question  asked, 
While  a  throat  can  lift  the  song, 
Or  a  flapping  wing  be  tasked. 
So  long  may  be  the  feathered  glee, 
These  geese  may  touch  from  sea  to  sea. 

All  the  grandmothers  about 

Hear  these  orators  of  Heaven ; 

Then  clap  on  their  flannels  stout, 

Cowering  o'er  the  hearth  at  even : 

Children  stare  up  in  the  sky, 

And  laugh  to  see  the  long  black  line  on  high. 

Was  it  all 
To  make  us  laugh  a  little, 

[376] 


MEMORIAL     VERSES 

They  had  drawn  them  round  our  ball, 
On  their  winglets  brittle  ? 

Year  by  year, 
As  an  airy  joke  to  veer? 

Then  once  more  I  heard  them  say, 
"T  is  a  smooth  delightful  road; 
Difficult  to  lose  the  way, 
And  a  trifle  for  a  load. 
'T  was  our  forte  to  pass  for  this ; 
Proper  sack  and  sense  to  borrow ; 
Wings  and  legs,  and  bills  that  clatter, 
And  the  horizon  of  To-morrow." 


[377] 


INDEX 


INDEX 


[It  will  be  evident  to  any  reader  that  an  index  of  this  volume,  to  be  complete, 
must  run  to  many  more  pages  than  are  here  allowed.  What  is  now  attempted 
is  to  give  in  the  eight  hundred  and  more  titles,  and  more  than  three  thousand 
page  entries,  the  names  of  most  authors  mentioned,  of  towns,  plants,  etc.,  and 
a  key  to  many  of  those  expressions  which  these  very  original  writers  used.  The 
towns  named  are  in  Massachusetts  unless  otherwise  indicated,  r.  B.  s.] 


ABBEY,  NEWSTEAD,  xix,  321 

Abbot  (Abbas),  vii 

Academies,  149,  160 

Academy,  Concord,  7 

Achilles,  248 

Acorns,  12,  86,  102,  106,  120,  160 

Acton  (the  town),  135,  264 

Adams,  C.  F.,  3TO 

Adams,  James,  123 

Addison,  272 

Adolphus,  Gustavus,  320 

Adonis,  348 

Adshed  (Persian  poet},  157 

jElian,  61 

jEolian  harp,  235,  274 

jEschylus,  49 

jEsculapius,  361 

Africa,  274 

After-math,  220 

Afternoon  walks,  65,  127,  133,  149, 

214,  266,  305,  327,  358 
Agricola  of  Tacitus,  262 
Ajax  Goodwin  (fisherman),  11,  68, 

106 

Albion  (hotel),  113 
Alcott,  Bronson,  ix,  xvi,  146,  305, 

307,  309,  318,  322,  329,  343 
Alfieri,  10,  237 
Almanac,  Farmers',  60 
Alms,  245 


Alpine,  263,  356 

Altars,  224,  349 

Amazon,  218 

America,  59,  90,  145,  188,  263,  299, 

308 

Amherst,  N.  H.,  36 
Anacreon,  49 
Anakim  (in  art),  187 
Andromeda  (the  plant},  117,  282 
Andromeda  Ponds,  281 
Andropogon,  68,  106 
Andrugio,  198 
Angelico,  Fra,  169 
Angelo,  Michel,  30,  147,  187,  368 
Ann,  Cape,  118 
Anthony's  corner,  104 
Antiquities,  60,  275 
Anti-slavery,  16,  241,  256,  261 
Antoninus,  18 
Anursnuc  (the  hill),  22,  144 
Apollo,  95,  348 
Appian  Way,  338 
Apples,    7,  39,    77,   146,   195,  217, 

246-247,  272,  350,  370 
Appleton,  T.  G.,  274 
Apple-tree,  140,  144,  185,  370 
April,  100,  104,  119,  123,  238,  277, 

300,  354 
Aquines,  246 
Arboretum,  Loudon's,  275 


[381  ] 


THOREAU 


Arbors,  306,  310 

Arch,  day's  cheerful,  354 

Architecture,    188,    190,   240,   321, 

363 

Aristotle,  61 
Arnica  mollis,  44 
Arrow,  111,  359 
Arrow-head,  Indian,  95,  136,  264, 

271,  295 

Art  and  artists,  vii,  187,  206,  301 
Art   and    Nature,    145,    184,    188, 

193 

Ash-tree,  141,  166 
Asia,  mentioned,  25,  77 
Assabet  (the  river),  152,  172 
Aster,  122,  124,  155,  263,  363 
Aster  Tradescanti,  101,  105,  289 
Astrochiton,  180 
Atheism,  90 
Athenaeum,  Boston,  187 
Athenian,  307 
Athens,  56,  307 
Atlantic  Monthly,  x 
Atlantic  Ocean,  329 
August,  22,  104,  106,  122,  173,  215, 

219,  294,  300,  349 
Augustine,  St.,  206 
Auk  (the  bird),  118 
Aurora,  72,  93 

Austerity  of  Thoreau,  32,  244,  311, 

329 
Authors  quoted  (see  their  names  in 

this  Index) 
Autumn,  93,  95,  104-106,  115-117, 

167,  181,  188,  193,  201,  204,  217, 

220,  285,  349,  366 
Autumnal  aspects,  39,  272 
Awe,  the  cause  of  potato-rot,  89 
Axe,  the  chopper's,  242,  361 
Axe  of  Thoreau,  4,  271 

Ayer  (the  town),  xvi,  358 


BACCHYLIDES,  quoted,  132 

Bailey  (the  poet),  156 

Bait  for  fish,  172 

Baker  Farm,  124,  177,  370,  373 

Ballads,  Robin  Hood,  57,  275 

Balls,  potato,  74 

Bank,  123,  136,  289 

Barberry,  23,  142,  167 

Barns,  the  farmers',  140,  190 

Barnstable  (County),  252-253,  363- 

369 

Barrett's  Hill  (Nashawtuc),  144 
Bassi,  Laura,  quoted,  vii 
Bayberry,  24,  289 
Bay,  Fairhaven,  140 
Bay,  Hudson's,  106 
Beach  House,  36 
Beak  of  Caesar,  33 
Beans,  9,  93,  141,  261 
Beasts,  11,  150,  212 
Beaumont  (the  poet),  57 
Beauty,  34,  98,  102,  116,  135,  138, 

159,  187,  242,  302,  328 
Beaver  Pond,  169 
Bedford  (the  town),  3,  251,  300 
Beech,  290 
Bees,  73,   77,   151,   154,   230,   265, 

354 

Beggars  in  Iran,  171 
Bell,  the  church,  239 
Bell,  the  factory,  358 
Ben  Johnson,  28  (but  see  Jonson) 
Bentley,  quoted,  304 
Berghem  (painter),  368 
Bermoothes,  72 
Bermuda,  354 
Berries,  12,  22,  68,  71,  88,  99,  182, 

193,  222,  250,  278,  291-293,  356 
Bettine  von  Arnim,  310 
Bewick,  Thomas,  280 
Bhagvat  Gheeta,  50 


[   382   ] 


INDEX 


Bible,  333 

Bidens  Beckii,  106,  218 

Billerica  (the  town},  264 

Birch  (the  tree),  84,  107,  167,  250 

Birds,  viii,  11,  58,  78,  88,  94,  96,  105, 

114,  144,  147-149,  155,  170,  184, 

192,  223,  239,  254,  277,  288,  296, 

300,  334,  335,  349,  350-354,  363, 

366,  371,  374-377 
Birkenhead,  John  (the  poet),  57 
Bisrailler,  Rev.,  203 
Bittern,  151,  169 
Blackberries,  216,  289 
Blake,  Harrison,  44 
Blake,  William,  213,  296 
Blanding  turtle,  33,  281 
Blossom  Day,  143 
Blueberries,  99 
Bluebirds,  78, 134, 137, 286,  334,  335, 

355,  361 
Boat,  8,  13,  34,  36,  119,  169,  209, 

266,  327,  367 

Bobolinks,  30,  96,  105,  147 
Boccaccio,  275 
Bombyx  pint,  211 
Book-cases,  9,  14 
Books  of  Thoreau,  38,  41,  49,  83, 

230,  232,  254-256,  260,  340 
Books  read  by  Thoreau,  34,  49,  57- 

62,  229,  262,  275 
Boon  nature,  191 
Borrow,  George,  309 
Bose  (a  dog},  172 
Boston,  mentioned,  x,  4,  21,  36, 188, 

328 

Botany,  42,  61 

Boyhood  of  Thoreau,  5,  18,  108 
Brampton  Hall,  25 
Brazil,  59 

Breadalbane,  Lord,  134,  177 
Bream  (the  fish),  152,  219,  283,  299 

[   383   ] 


Brighton  (the  town),  128 

Brilliana  Harley,  xx,  25 

Brooks  (in  Concord,  mostly) :  Berk 
shire,  139;  Clematis,  94, 142,  204; 
Farrar's,  94;  Pantry,  170;  San- 
guinetto,  124,  370;  Saw-mill,  355; 
Second  Division,  69,  133,  139 

Brown,  John,  of  Kansas,  16,  241, 
256,  260-262 

Brown,  Theo.,  44 

Browne  (the  poet),  57 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  quoted,  338 

Brownson,  O.  A.,  32 

Bubbles,  97,  355 

Buds,  v,  84,  113,  134,  350 

Buffon,  quoted,  110 

Burns,  Jeanie,  3 

Bushes,  78,  112,  267 

Buttercups,  293 

Butterflies,  73,  104,  127,  168,  265, 
313 

Buttrick,  Abner,  301 

Byron  (the  poet),  xix,  254 

CABIN,  75,  171,  371 

Cabin  of  Thoreau  at  Walden,  7, 

207,  230,  328 
Caddis-worm,  124 
Caesar,  Julius,  33,  56,  178,  262 
Cairo,  20 
Calamint,  73 
Calendars    of   Thoreau,    67,    215, 

250 

California,  328 
Calla,  290 

Cambridge  (the  city),  21,  49 
Campeachy,  375 
Camp,  on  Monadnoc,  42 
Camp,  on  Mount  Washington,  44 
Canada,  75,  90,  173,  241,  248,  255, 

273 


THOREAU 


Candor  of  Thoreau,  8, 16,  19,  31, 119 

Canton  (the  town),  32 

Cape  Ann,  118 

Cape  Cod,  21,  35,  122,  252,  255,  271, 
363-369 

Cape  Cod  (the  book),  9,  255 

Cape  Cod  Poems,  xvi,  363 

Cardinal  flowers,  106,  194 

Carew  (the  poet),  171 

Caribs,  59 

Carlisle  (the  town),  176,  251 

Carlyle,    Thomas,    mentioned,    50, 
58,  166,  255,  260 ;  quoted,  198 

Carnac,  234 

Cassandra  (the  plant),  282 

Cat,  24,  298,  317,  329 

Catostomus  Bostoniensis,  121,  298 

Catiline,  262 

Catkins,  286 

Catnep,  119 

Cato,  49,  60,  220 

Cattle,  103,  158,  175,  363,  376 

Caucasus,  116 

Cavaliers,  25 

Cell,  299 

Cellar,  7,  190,  240,  246 

Cemetery,  Sleepy  Hollow,  xvi,  71, 
341,  355 

Cervantes,  309 

Channing,  Doctor  (uncle  of  Ellery 
Channing),  146,  156 

Channing,  Ellery  (William  Ellery 
Channing,  b.  1818,  d.  1901) 
books  of,  x-xiv,  132 ;  quoted,  146, 
148,  185,  187,  195,  207-209,  212, 
218-219,  223-224,  252-253,  267- 
270,  285-286,  292,  297-298,  322 
character  of,  xv,  66,  332 
his  Life  of  Thoreau,  ix,  xi,  xiii 
his  Memorial  Poems,  x,  xii,  345- 
377 


Channing,  W.  E.  (continued) 

rambles  with  Emerson,  Green, 
etc.,  42,  66,  95, 118, 132, 140, 143- 
195,  241,  305-323,  328,  339,  350, 
358-363,  373 

Truro  visits,  252,  271,  363 

his  Walden  poem,  207 

White  Pond  poem,  347 

walks  and  Country  Walking,  xiii, 

12,  35,  67,  132,  328,  370 
Chapman,    George  (the  poet),   31, 

171,  231,  262 
Charlestown,  Va.,  241 
Chatterton  (the  poet),  210 
Chaucer,  50,  57,  82,  110,  275 
Chelmsford  (the  town),  4 
Chestnuts,  117,  182 
Chiam,  Omar  (Khayyam),  141 
China,  35,  104 
Chinese  proverbs,  48,  225 
Cholmondeley,  Thomas,  14,  50,  278 
Christ,  51,  60,  228,  351 
Christians,  25,  29,  137,  225,  301,  372 
Chrysostom  (Alcott),  318-321 
Cicindela,  94,  265 
Cider,  9,  176,  321 
Cinque-foil,  Norway,  74 
Cistuda,  281 
Cities,  20,  102,  160,  171,  276,  310, 

358 

Civilization,  159,  251,  315,  317 
Clam,  245 

Clam-shell  Bank,  136-137,  204 
Classics,  38,  49,  60,  89,  263,  307 
Claude  Lorraine,  xx 
Cleopatra,  170 
Clethra,  77,  293 
Cliff,  Fairhaven,  22,  144,  251,  328, 

371 

Cliff,  Lee's,  23,  24,  142 
Cliffs,  Grape,  216 


[   384   ] 


INDEX 


Clothes  of  Thoreau,  8,  33,  65 

Cob-money,  271 

Cocks,  crowing  of,  113,  245 

Cohosh  ( plant),  141 

Cohosh  Swamp,  23,  217 

Coleridge  (the  poet),  viii,  304 

Color,  98,   106,  153-154,   170,   184, 

251,  368 

Color  of  birds,  78,  89,  105,  144,  300 
Columella,  49,  60,  88 
Coming  of  Spring  (poem),  285 
Communities,  309,  311 
Conantum  (pasture  district),   133, 

140-141,  159 
Concord  (the  town),  3,  7,  14,  21,  32, 

67,  76,  83,  133,  139,  144,  171,  200, 

222,  241,  270,  288,  317 
Concord  jail,  273 
Concord  River,  11,  13,  22,  65,  115, 

135,  141,  170,  218,  251,  264,  347 
Copan  (in  Concord),  23 
Coral,  72,  272 
Corner  road,  125,  128 
Cottage,  87,  101 
Cotton,  Charles,  54 
Country-Living  (a  poem),  297 
Country  Walking,  xiii,  132 
Cowper  (the  poet),  239 
Cows,  158,  293,  299,  309,  315,  349, 

370 

Crashaw  (The  Nativity),  138 
Crickets,  70,  77,  96,  101,  115,  117, 

251,  290,  294,  296,  368 
Croesus,  120,  170 
Crows,  100,  348 
Cuckoo,  149 

Curzon's  Mill  (Newburyport),  265 
Cutting's  (a  tavern),  146 


DALGETTY,  DUGALD,  320 
Dandelions,  216,  297 


Daniel  (the  poet),  52,  57 

Daniel  (the  prophet),  205 

Dante,  mentioned,  17,  185,  235,  319 

Darwin,  221,  315 

Davenant  (the  poet),  2,  6,  49 

Davis,  Jefferson,  261 

Days,  93,  97,  99,  104,  115,  123,  147, 

151,  184,  195,  215,  223,  237,  251, 

267,  293,  300,  331,  335 
Deacons,  32,  362 
Death,  19,  71,  210,  232,  253,  263, 

274,  284,  300,  335-336,  340,  343 
De  Bry,  58,  249 
December,  11,  25,  99,  111,  184,  262, 

278,  334,  336,  350,  362 
Decker  (the  poet),  228 
Deep  Cut,  the,  77 
Deer,  234,  314 

Delay,  The  Poet's  (poem),  239 
Demerara,  104 
Democrat,  145,  191,  265,  361 
Democratic  Review,  255 
De  Quincey,  229,  234 
Departure  (poem  of  Thoreau),  337 
Destiny,  93,  137,  177,  187,  206 
Devil,  the,  127,  265,  316 
Dial,  The  (magazine),  255,  259 
Diana  (the  moon),  70,  180,  348 
Dickens,  Charles,  58 
Diet  of  Thoreau,  67 
Dionysus,  228 
Disease  in  general,  164 
Disease  of  Thoreau,  132,  334,  336- 

340 

Ditties  sung  by  Thoreau,  41,  125 
Dogs,  20,  172,  175 
Domes,  101,  290 
Donne  (the  poet),  51,  53-54,   165, 

175,  203,  225,  230,  258,  272,  280, 

332,  340 
Don  Quixote,  224,  308 

385 


THOREAU 


Doors  and  door-stones,  141,  292 

Down  of  milkweed,  204-205 

Down  of  thistles,  154 

Downs,  Mrs.  Annie  S.,  270 

Dray  ton  (the  poet},  55 

Driftwood,  9,  14,  283 

Drummond  (the  poet),  55 

Dryads,  144,  266,  348 

Dryden  (the  poet),  186 

Ducks,  23,  210,  254,  286,  300,  352 

Duganne,  152,  203 

Dunstable  (the  town),  34 

Dutch  toper,  85-86 

Duties  of  life,  16,  24,  49,  65,  86,  90, 

119,  164,  176,  191,  195,  200,  206, 

224,  318,  339 
Dying  weeks  of  Thoreau,  336-343 

EARTH,  Mother,  95,  272,  284,  351- 

352 

Easterbrooks  (colloquial),  23,  328 
Eastern  sky,  93,  223-224,  251 
Ebba  Hubbard,  159 
Edinburgh,  327 
Eels,  37 

Eggs  of  birds,  15,  68,  114,  293,  300 
Eggs  of  snakes,  211 
Eggs  of  turtles,  88,  281,  284,  288 
Egotism  of  Thoreau,  20,  119,  212, 

278,  328 
Egypt,  309 
Egyptian,  216,  234 
Eidolon  (Alcott),  307-309,  319 
Emblems  of  Quarles,  53,  56 
Emerson,  R.  W.,  mentioned,  vi,  ix, 

xiii,  95,  124,   132-133,   166,   172, 

259,  328,  333,  373 

quoted  in  verse,  15,  64,  72,  82,  98, 
122,  125,  129,  141,  147,  150,  157- 
158,  162,  171,  178,  191-193,  221, 
244,  283,  341 


Emerson,  R.  W.  (continued) 

quoted  in  prose,  134-135, 137,  141, 
143,  145-146,  153,  156-160,  165- 
167,  170-171,  177,  183,  187,  305 
Emerson,  William,  49 
Endymion  (Thoreau),  71 
England,  25,  134,  156,  159,  182,  188 
English,  38,  49,  83,  137,  167,  185, 

229,  254,  274,  306 
Englishmen,  3,  14,  20,  25,  50,  61, 

167,  192,  288,  309 
Ennius,  quoted,  316 
Epictetus,  11 
Esquimaux,  116,  186 
Estabrook  country,  23,  328 
Eternity,  85,  90,  138 
Evelyn,  61 
Evening,  38,  55,  96,  99,  101,  115, 

187,  195,  219,  301,  331 
Everlasting  (the  flower),  182,  194 
Excellence  of  style,  38-39,  58,  85, 

87,  121,  188,  206,  213,  229,  234, 

242,  248,  254 
Excursions  (the  book),  ix,  232,  255, 

272 

FACT-BOOKS,  50,  65 

Faculties  of  men,  51,  85-86,  120, 

160,  177,  183,  207,  230,  330 
Fairhaven   Bay  (or  Pond),  23-24, 

140,  251,  327 

Fairhaven  Hill,  22,  100,  144,  328 
Faith,  52,  68,  101,  333 
Faith  in  God,  17,  89,  122,  200,  224, 

253,  301,  336,  347,  353 
Fallen  leaves,  22,  105-106,  218,  266, 

284,  349 

Fame,  56,  57,  187,  206,  308,  361 
Family  of  Thoreau,  3,  5,  18,  24 
Farm,  43,  124,  145,  190,  359-360 
Farmer,  Jacob,  68 


[  386  ] 


INDEX 


Farmers  of  Concord,  9,  15,  31,  40,      Fox,  C.  J.,  of  Nashua,  34 


60,  69,  76,  88,  108,  159,  175,  189, 

191,  220 
Farmhouse,  93,  129,  140,  157,  187, 

190,  269,  358 
Farming  life,  145,  173,  175, 177,  182, 

189,  242,  299,  360 
Farrar's  Brook,  94 
Fate,  100,  157,  187,  206,  262,  305, 

330,  351,  356 
Faust,  184 
Favorite  authors,  38,  50,  55,  61,  89, 

154-156,  171,  259,  275 
Feathers,  34,  105,  151,  158 
Features  of  Thoreau,  17,  33,  341 
February,  189,  265,  301,  334 
Ferns,  107,  294-295,  300 
Festus  (Bailey's  poem),  156-157,  228 
Fichte,  quoted,  213 
Fields,  9,  38,  72,  104,  112,  125,  140, 

167,  173,  195,  215,  222,  237,  313, 

332,  339,  351,  361,  370,  372 
Fish,  and  fishing,  11,  36,  94,  106, 

115,  123,  136,  152,  172,  219,  282, 

298-299,  357,  375 
Fitzwilliam,  N.  H.  (the  town),  45 
Flakes  of  snow,  73,  112,  185 
Fletchers  (the  poets),  51-52,  228,  237 
Flint's  Pond,  163,  169,  281 
Flowers,  viii,  22,  42,  74,  98,  104,  128, 

139,  152,  155,  194,  214-215,  289, 

292-293,  348,  354,  363 
Flute-playing,  41 
Fools,  83,  85,  272,  275,  316 
Forbes,  J.  M.,  xiv 
Forest-brook,  285 
Forest  Lake,  166 
Forest  succession,  104,  256 
Formalist,  88,  120,  229 
Fortune,  xv,  32,  54,  89,  120,  132, 

150,  178,  191,  198,  212,  244,  297 


Foxes,  296 

Fox  River,  281 

Framingham  (the  town),  144-145 

France,  mentioned,  4,  182,  306 

Frederick  of  Prussia,  198,  213,  326 

Freedom,    20,   90,    241,    261,    330, 

342 
French  authors,  49,  59,  61,  110, 198, 

210,  214,  224,  253,  258,  315,  326 
Friendship,  vi,  25,  30-32,  44,  132, 

233,  237,  244-245,  255,  328,  343 
Friends'  Hill,  166 
Frogs,  11,  97,  101, 103, 115, 124, 151, 

285,  286-288,  300,  354 
Frost  and  ice,  67,  107,  111,  184-186, 

195,  278,  291,  334,  359,  361 
Froysell,  Rev.  James,  quoted,  25 
Fruit,  68,  72,  105,  215,  222 
Fruitlands,  xv,  146 
Fuel,  3,  44,  90,  101,  117,  139,  167 
Future  life,  19,  271,  278,  311 

GABERDINE,  230,  372 

Gaiety  of  Thoreau,  39,  84,  94 

Gall  (the  phrenologist),  266 

Gallery,  75,  187,  238,  372 

Ganges,  135 

Garden  and  garden  plants,  306 

Garret,  250,  264 

Garrison,  W.  L.,  241 

Gebir  (of  Landor),  quoted,  viii 

Gem  of  the  wood,  347 

Genius,  xi,  113,  118,  160,  330 

Gentian,  105,  193,  290,  356 

George  Minott,  133-134,  335 

George  Robins,  xix 

Gerard  (botanist),  61 

German  authors  and  studies,  32,  48, 

50,  58,  172,  187,  210,  229,  243,  263, 

308,  329,  338-339 


[  387  ] 


THOREAU 


Gifts,  v,  39 

Gill-go-over-the-ground,  299 

Gilpin,  Mr.,  188-190 

Girls,  16,  158,  321,  327,  359-360 

Glass,  207-208,  240,  277 

God,  xx,  25,  29,  58,  89,  90,  122,  162, 

210,  239,  242,  253,  271,  292,  299, 

301,  323,  333,  336,  352-353,  370 
Gods,  72,  89,  117, 118,  180,  224,  228, 

231,  236,  316,  321,  348 
Goethe,  mentioned,  50,  58, 172, 187 ; 

quoted,  210,  243,  263,  329,  339 
Golconda,  265 
Golden-rod,  168,  193,  215 
Goldfinch,  105,  296 
Goldsmith  (the  poet),  xx,  305 
Goodness,  Original,  17,  236 
Goodwin  (the  fisher),   11,  68,   106, 

136 

Goose,  350,  361,  373-375 
Goose  Pond,  95 
Gorgon  face,  132 
Gossamer,  155,  264 
Gowing's  Swamp,  15 
Grapes,  159,  167,  193,  216,  267-270 
Grass,  60,  105,  111,  134,  222,  293, 

306 
Gray  (the  color),  124,  158,  195,  282, 

350 

Gray  (the  poet),  xix,  128 
Greece,  234,  307,  345 
Greek  authors,  49,  57,  61,  156,  180, 

184,  228,  235,  247,  275,  307 
Greeks,  314 
Green  (the  color),  74,  100,  101,  135, 

146,  153,  216,  247,  265,  268,  286, 

290,  350,  363,  371 
Green,  C.  H.,  328 
Greville,  Fulke,  52 
Grist-mill,  265,  355-357 
Groton  (the  town),  358 


Gue"rin,  Euge'nie,  quoted,  vii 
Gulls,  23,  136,  254 
Gun,  72,  265,  353 
Gunner  (Melviri),  136 


HABINGTON  (the  poet),  56 

Hafiz,  Emerson's  version,  162 

Hair,  33,  123,  306 

Hall,  Bishop,  quoted,  246,  277 

Hamlet,  in  Truro,  252 

Hardy,  Captain,  305 

Harley  family,  xx,  25 

Harper's  Song,  243 

Harp  of  telegraph,  199-202 

Harris,  James,  xix 

Harris,  T.  W.,  21,  283 

Harvard  (the  town),  xvi,  146 

Harvard  College,  6,  49-50,  249,  273, 

278 

Hassan  (in  Emerson),  178 
Hassock,  372 
Hawk,  68,  114,  282 
Hawkweeds,  74,  214 
Hawthorne,  N.,  13,  187,  231,  272 
Hay,  103,  312 
Hayden,  described,  108 
Haymarket,  Boston,  13 
Hazlitt,  quoted,  132 
Heaven,  17,  19,  23,  59,  90,  128,  165, 

201,  342,  373 

Heifer,  the  Beautiful,  76-77 
Helen  Thoreau,  18 
Helicon,  358 
Hell,  251 

Hemans,  Mrs.,  41 
Henry  (Thoreau),  v,  4,  18,  29,  140, 

218,  273,  339,  371 
Herbert,  George,  quoted,  240 
Hermes  of  Harris,  xix 
Heron  Pond,  142 
Heron  Rock,  23 

[  388   ] 


INDEX 


Herrick  (the  poet),  156,  167 

Hibernian,  313 

Hickory-buds,  84 

Hickory-nuts,  182 

Hickory-tree,  291 

Highway,  127 

Hills:  in  Concord,  22,  100,  144,  166, 
328 ;  Blue,  22 ;  Peterboro,  22 ;  Ma 
son,  22;  White,  21 

Hindoo  Mythology,  50,  89 

Hoar,  Elizabeth,  341 

Hoar  family,  5 

Holbrook,  281 

Holy  Dove,  372 

Homeliness,  of  Thoreau,  34 ;  of  his 
topics,  83,  242 

Homer,  50,  89,  153,  235 

Homilies  of  Thoreau,  83,  120,  164 

Honey-bee,  154 

Horace  (the  poet),  275 

Hornets,  249,  265 

Horse,  described,  173-175 

Hosmer,  88,  175 

Hotham,  E.  S.,  352 

Hounds,  124,  295,  360 

Houstonia,  144,  149,  289 

Howe's  Tavern,  149 

Hubbard,  Cyrus,  69 

Hubbard,  Ebenezer,  159 

Hubbard's  Bridge,  293 

Hudson's  Bay,  106 

Hudson's  River,  34,  136 

Hull  (the  town),  294 

Human  and  Volucral,  93 

Humble-bee,  73,  77 

Humor  of  Thoreau,  40,  121,  246 

Hylas,  286,  354 

Hylodes  Pickeringii,  136 

Hymen,  147 

Hypaethral,  112,  212 

Hyperborean  gods,  117 


ICARUS,  55 

Ice,  72,  94,  186,  189,  264,  301,  350 

Ideality,  66 

Iliad,  283 

Illinois,  281 

Imagination,  32,  85-86,  230 

Immortality,  271,  311 

India,  14,  50 

India-rubber,  41 

Indian  (of  America),  his  aspect,  59, 

67,  249,  251,  356 
his  food  and  habits,   18,  59-60, 

89,  136,  158,  295,  313,  356 
in  general,  10,  11,  41,  99,  142,  148, 

172,  248,  316,  336,  340-341 
Indian  summer,  181 
Innkeeper,  18,  35 
Inns,  143,  146,  361 
Insects,  157,  265 
Inspiration,  quoted,  71,  238 
Institutions,  90,  94,  174,  241 
Irish  and  Irishman,  174,  310,  313 
Island  opportunities,  85 
Island,  Staten,  21 
Italy,  182,  188,  244 


JAFFREY,  N.  H.  (the  town),  43 

Jail,  Thoreau  in,  273 

January,  99,  117,  151,  173,  290 

Janus  Vitalis,  quoted,  258 

Jarno,  308 

Jays,  300,  350 

Jean  Paul,  308 

Jellies,  146,  186,  282 

Jersey,  Isle  of,  3-4 

Jesuits  and  their  Relations,  59, 173, 

248,  263 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  xix,  272 
Jomini,  quoted,  326 
Jonson,  Ben,  quoted,  28,  167,  180, 

280 

[  389  ] 


THOREAU 


Jordan,  353 

Josselyn,  181,  263,  271 

Journals  of  Thoreau,  ix,  10,  14,  20, 

65-68,  173,  199,  339 
Jove,  125,  266,  316,  350 
Joy,  83,  97,  278 
Jugurtha,  322 
July,  3,  12,  44,  122,  151,  157,  170, 

237,  256,  289,  293 
June,  122,  142,  290,  293 

KALMIA  GLAUCA,  140 
Katahdin,  9,  42,  255 
Keats,  viii,  xv 
Keith,  Marshal,  326 
Kerosene  lamps,  247 
Kibbe  (Carlisle  farmer],  177 
Kidd,  Captain,  271 
King-fisher,  349 
Kitchen-midden,  136,  313 
Kittens,  24 
Knapsack,  18,  41 
Koran,  207 

LABOR,  of  Thoreau,  7,  13,  24,  40, 

66-68,  248,  260,  282,  333,  340 
Labrador,  374,  376 
Laconic  rocks,  357 
Lafayette,  Mount,  45 
Lagoon,  298,  374 
Lakes :  Forest,  166 ;  Moosehead,  42 ; 

Morrice,  352;  Ripple,  95;  White 

Pond,  350 
Lament  (poem),  351 
Landor,  quoted,  viii 
Lass,  the  fisher,  367 
Latin  authors,  vii,  14,  49,  55,  60, 

162,  203,  246,  255,  258,  262,  275, 

280,  316,  322,  326 
Latin  language,  57,  102,  137,  212, 

216,  218,  246,  256,  316 


Latins,  the,  128,  316 

Lavender,  182 

Leaves,  75,  105,  216,  266-267,  284, 

349,  357 

Lecturing,  35,  214,  241,  256, 260,  334 
Letters  of  Thoreau,  24,  255,  334-336 
Lewis  and  Clark,  263 
Lilies,  61,  141,  170,  216,  219,  288 
Lincoln  (the  town),   144,  163,  172, 

200,  217,  281 
Linnaea,  44 
Linnaeus,  61 
Lithgow,  quoted,  132 
London,  40,  210,  229 
Long  Wharf,  328 
Love,  v,  54,  102,  138,  328,  353,  361 
Lowell  (the  city),  357 
Lowell  (the  poet),  17 
Lucan,  quoted,  316 
Lucilius,  quoted,  280 

MACKEREL  cloud,  115 

Mackerel-sky,  114,  287 

Mme.  de  Sevigne,  quoted,  198 

Magazines,  17,  72,  255-256,  259,  340 

Magnetism,  202 

Maid,  147,  193,  276,  320,  359-360 

Maiden,  125,  171 

Maine,  9,  59 

Maine  woods,  ix,  8,  116,  254,  340 

Maker  of  the  world,  73 

Mains  (apple),  246-247 

Man,  54,  120,  125,   158,    165,   173, 

207,  210,  264,  313-315,  331,  376 
Mankind,  89,  311 
Mann,  Horace,  Jr.,  334 
Maples,  107,  159,  176,  193,  216,  285- 

286,  292,  349,  357 
Marathon,  295 
March  (the  month),  124,  264,  294- 

295,  334 


[   390   ] 


INDEX 


Marlboro'  (the  town),  127,  146 
Marlboro'  road,  23,  104 
Marlowe  (the  poet),  55 
Marston,  quoted,  198 
Marston  Watson,  xi,  311 
Martineau,  Harriet,  90 
Marvell  (the  poet),  quoted,  262 
Mason,  N.  H.  (the  town),  22 
Mason's  pasture,  24 
Massachusetts,  3,  21,  41,  143 
Maxims  of  Thoreau,  66,  78,  83,  86, 

87,  89-90,  97,  113,  118,  120,  122, 

129,  175,  206,  213,  222,  236,  245, 

254,  291,  299,  330-331,  340 
May  (the  month),  97,  104,  123,  133, 

143,  271,  277,  287,  292-293,  297, 

336,  369 
Mayflower  (Epigcea),  139,  194,  216, 

291 

Mayweed,  128 
Meadow-hay,  294 
Meadow-hens,  282 
Meadow  mud,  120 
Meadows  of  Concord,  3,  5,  21,  69, 

96,  107,  144,  158,  219,  221,  267, 

292,  295-297,  355 
Meal,  12,  59,  289,  311,  357-358 
Mecca,  171 
Medicine,  88,  245 
Melancholy,  11,  253-254,  290 
Melodies,  96,  105,  125,  286 
Memorial  Poems,  xii,  xvi,  344-377 
Menu  (lawgiver),  50,  255 
Mercury,  202 
Merops  (Emerson),  129 
Merrimac  (the  river),  13,  255,  259 
Mesopotamia,  295 
Metamorphosis,  271 
Michigan,  328 
Middlesex,  18,  256 
Midsummer,  98,  151,  170 


Midwinter,  112,  301 

Mikania  scandens,  194 

Miles,  Jimmy,  114 

Milestones,  309 

Milk,  276-277,  299,  301,  315 

Milk  of  Valhalla,  251 

Milkweed,  154,  193,  204-205 

Milky  Way,  251 

Mill,  Barrett's,  356 

Mill,  Curzon's,  265 

Mill,  on  seacoast,  366 

Mill-dam  (Concord  Village),  5,  159 

Milton  (the  poet),  50,  52, 156, 239, 275 

Mind  of  the  universe,  122 

Minister,  247,  260,  317 

Minister,  horn-pout,  298 

Minnesota,  75,  334 

Minott,  George,  134,  335 

Miseries,  273 

Misfortune,  304 

Mithridates,  250 

Mohawk,  250 

Mole  cricket,  296 

Moloch,  261 

Monadnoc,  22,  42,  125,  145 

Montaigne,  50,  140,  253 

Montfaucon,  275 

Monument,  at  Concord,  261 

Moon,  the,  70,  115,  180,  184 

Moonlight,  34,  255,  272,  286,  357 

Moore  (the  Concord  farmer),  305 

Moore  (the  poet),  41 

Moose,  20,  251,  336 

Moosehead  Lake,  42 

Moral  truth  of  Thoreau,  16,  25,  121, 

200,  208,  224,  241,  261,  278,  329, 

333,  337 
Morning,  51,  54,  59,   72,  93,  239, 

357 

Morning-glory,  293 
Mosses,  270,  302 

[391  ] 


THOREAU 


Mother,  5,  18,  270,  284,  314 
Mottoes,  150,  276,  354 
Mountains,  22,  34,  42-43,  45,  123, 

145,  163,  244,  260,  286 
Mount  Desert,  233 
Mount  Lafayette,  45 
Mount  Misery,  23,  142,  218 
Mount  Pelion,  155,  243 
Mud,  284,  299,  313 
Mud-turtle,  211 
Mullein,  155,  167 
Multum  in  parvo,  199 
Muse,  132,  144,  201 
Music,  38,  95,  145,  149,  171,  202, 

302,  326,  332 
Musketaquit,  141 
Muskrat  (Musquash),  115,  123,  219, 

288,  370 

Musophilus,  52,  308 
Myrrh,  332 
Mysteries,  98,  112,  139,  291 

NAIL-PARINGS,  89 

Napoleon,  262 

Nashawtuc,  22,  144 

Nashoba,  218 

Nashua  (river),  360 

Natick  (the  town),  59,  144 

Nations,  376 

Natural  History,  43,  61,  214,  255, 
281 

Naturalist,  x,  67,  270,  275 

Nature  personified,  v,  12,  23,  52,  61, 
71-74,  84,  85,  88,  94,  95,  98,  102, 
104,  111,  113,  121,  146-147,  181, 
191, 252-253, 288, 294, 301, 313-314 

Nature  not  personified,  x,  20,  65,  39, 
57,  65,  75,  83,  87,  98,  105-106, 
112,  115,  122,  137,  195,  207,  210, 
215,  234,  237,  242,  249,  262,  265, 
280 


Near  Home,  quoted,  219 

Nectar,  277 

Neottia,  115,  292 

New  Bedford  (the  town),  21 

Newbury  (the  town),  265 

New  England,  3,  22,  61,  102,  163, 

182,  186,  191,  240,  269,  271,  318, 

321,  342 

New  Hampshire,  36,  156,  321 
Newton  (the  town),  18 
New  York,  ix 
Night,  70,  97, 114, 116-117, 180, 184, 

251,  340 

Night-hawk,  43,  150 
Niles,  Thomas,  xi 
Nine-Acre  Corner,  94,  125,  128 
Nine  (the  Muses),  107,  201 
Nobscot,  22,  143-144,  218,  371 
Nonnus,  quoted,  180 
Noon,  301,  309,  348 
North  Carolina,  261 
Norway,  74 
Note-book  of  Thoreau,  43,  65-66, 

305,  339 
Novels  and  novelists,  58,  273,  275, 

309 

November,  105-107,  277 
Nox,  57,  116 
Nut,  113,  117 
Nut  Meadow,  114,  152 
Nymphs,  113 


OAK,  86,  120,  123,  146,  149,  157-159, 

192,  264,  336 

Ocean,  98,  244,  349,  364-365,  368 
October,  105,  138,  249 
Ode  to  Alcott,  322 
CEnone,  137 
Oil,  12,  338 
Olive,  216,  240,  337 
One  at  a  time,  372 

[   392   ] 


INDEX 


Orchard,  142,  159,  370 
Originality,  19,  278,  321 
Orleans  (the  town),  35 
Orpheus,  199,  238,  305 
Orra,  a  Tragedy,  92 
Osawatomie  (John  Brown),  16,  241 
Ossian,  275 
Owls,  140 
Ox,  69,  175 

PAN,  of  cream,  371 

Pan  (the  god),  125,  259,  266 

Parenthesis  of  life,  82,  329 

Parthenon,  187 

Partridge,  96,  107,  113,  148  (poem), 

215,  293 

Pascal,  quoted,  258 
Past,  the,  138,  153,  237,  240 
Pastures,  96,  123,  276 
Patchogue  (the  town),  36 
Peck,  Professor,  265 
Pedler,  35,  162 
Peele  (the  poet),  57 
Pencil-making,  40 
Pennyroyal,  84 
Percival  (the  poet),  184 
Persius,  58 

Peterboro',  22,  145,  306 
Philina,  242 
Phillips,  146,  241 
Philology  in  Thoreau,  77,  97,  264 
Philosophers,  88,  103,  126,  339 
Philosophy,  111,  164 
Phoenix,  162,  308 
Pierre,  St.,  61 
Piers  Plowman,  326 
Pilgrims,  41,  263,  321 
Pillsbury,  Parker,  241 
Pindar,  49 
Pine,  68,  84,  95,  134,  144,  183-185, 

220,  282,  296 


Pipe,  Indian,  182 

Pitcher-plant,  181 

Pitch-pine,  142,  184,  341 

Plantain,  194 

Plato,  50,  58,  307 

Pliny,  61,  253 

Plutarch,  245 

Plymouth  (the  town),  xi,  183,  194 

Poems  (by  title) 

To  Thoreau  (Dedication},  v-vi 
Quid  Inde  ?  Laura  Bassi,  vii 
The  Infant  Jesus,  Crashaw,  138 
Sudbury  Inn  (  Wayside  J,   Chan- 

ning,  146-147 

The  Partridge,  Channing,  148-149 
Transplanting,  Emerson,  158 
The  Phcenix,  Hqfiz,  162 
Saadi,  Emerson,  171-172 
Hassan,  Emerson,  178 
November,  Street,  182 
Teamsters'  Song,  Channing,  185 
Winter  Sunset,  Channing,  187 
Autumn,  Emerson,  192-193 
November,  Channing,  195 
Walden    Hermitage,     Channing, 

207-210 
The  Summer  Stream,  Channing, 

218-219 

Dawn  of  Day,  Channing,  223-224 
Rumors  from  an  ^Eolian  Harp, 

Thoreau,  235 
Morning,  Thoreau,  237 
The  Poet's  Delay,  Thoreau,  239 
The  Hamlet,  Channing,  252-253 
Wild  Grapes,  Channing,  267-270 
The  Coming  of  Spring,  Channing, 

285-286 

May,  Channing,  292 
Country-Living,  Channing,  297 
To  Alcott,  Channing,  322-323 


THOREAU 


Poems  (continued) 

The  Departure,  Thoreau,  337 
To  Henry  (at  funeral),  Channing, 

347 

White  Pond,  Channing,  347-351 
A  Lament,  Channing,  351 
Morrice  Lake,  Channing,  352-353 
Tears  in  Spring,  Channing,  354- 

355 
The  Mill  Brook,  Channing,  355- 

357 

Stillriver,  Channing,  358-363 
Truro,  Channing,  363-364 
The  Old  Wrecker,  Channing,  364- 

365 

Open  Ocean,  Channing,  365-366 
Windmill  on  the  Coast,  Channing, 

366-367 

Eternal  Sea,  Channing,  367 
Michel  Angela,  Channing,  368 
Old  Ocean,  Channing,  369 
Baker  Farm,  Channing,  370-373 
Flight  of  Geese,  Channing,  373-377 

Poet,  the,  xv,  23,  55,  64,  86,  125, 
154,  167,  171,  192,  212,  223,  238- 
239,  371 

Politian,  162 

Polygala,  139,  217 

Polypody,  103 

Ponds  (see  their  specific  names} 

Pope  (the  poet),  25,  60 ;  quoted,  206, 
260 

Poplar,  153,  218 

Potato,  74-75,  89,  215-216 

Potentilla,  74 

Pot  of  beans,  9 

Poverty,  113,  210,  247 

Prescott  (historian),  183,  272 

Procrustes,  136 

Provincetown,  35 


Prussia,  51,  213 
Publishers,  xi,  17,  210,  232 
Pump-a-gaw,  128,  140,  152 
Puseyite,  144 

QUARLES,  16,  53,  56 
Quinquinabosset,  156 
Quixote,  Don,  224,  308-309 

RABBIT,  108,  348 

Railroad,  77,  134,  165, 185,  200,  220, 

339,  371 

Rain,  42,  44,  70,  94,  122,  266 
Rain-tinted,  207 
Rana  palustris,  150,  288 
Rana  sylvatica,  101,  287 
Real  and  Ideal,  50,  66, 126,  145,  200, 

222 

Red-bird,  113,  122 
Redwing  (blackbird],  170 
Religion,  87,  90,  210,  225,  271,  341, 

371 

Ribeira,  187 
Riches,  120,  166 
Ricketson,  D.,  letter  to,  334 
Ring  (the  sound),  93-94,  97 
Ring  (the  circular  form),  139,  169 
Ripple  lakes,  95,  163 
Rivers,  107,  135,  141,  151,  170,  218, 

251,  264,  267,  277,  299,  313 
Roads  in  Concord:  Lincoln,   163, 

217;  Marlboro',  23,  104,  127,  275; 

Nine-Acre  Corner,  94,  125,  128; 

Price,  23 ;  Virginia,  3 
Robin  (bird),  96,  134,  211 
Robin  Hood,  50,  57-58,  241 
Romans,  60,  220,  316 
Rome,  60,  368 
Round  HiU,  169-172 
Rover  (a  boat),  13 
Rubber,  India-,  121 


[394] 


INDEX 


Rupert's  Land,  15 
Ruskin,  55,  58 
Russell,  E.  H.,  xiv 

SAADI,  50,  171,  1T8,  310 

St.  Augustine,  206 

Sam  Haynes  (fisherman),  170 

Sandwich  Islands,  59 

Sanguinetto,  124,  370 

Sappho,  184 

Sassafras,  141,  350 

Saxifrage,  98 

Saxonville,  264 

Scent,  96,  299 

Schoolcraft,  58 

School-keeping,  32,  259 

Science,  61,  88,  212,  249,  259,  264, 

281 

Scott,  Walter,  218 
Secundus,  quoted,  247 
Senecio,  152 
September,  4,  87,  99,  104,  115,  175, 

193,  199-200,  267-268,  305,  328 
Seven-star  Lane,  23 
Shade-tree,  cabbage  as,  159 
Shadow,  153,  157,  184,  222 
Shakespeare,   xv-xvi,    55-56,    153, 

192,  235,  239,  333 
Shanty,  195 
Shawsheen  River,  3 
Shed,  90,  311 

Shelley,  quoted,  vii,  273,  304,  326 
Shirley,  quoted,  180 
Shrub-oak,    23,    74,    102-103,    113, 

215 

Shylock,  29 

Sickness,  6,  164,  311,  334-335 
Sidney,  quoted,  57,  180 
Sin,  original,  17 
Skunk,  75,  151,  288 
Sky,  114,  192,  208 


Skymir,  158 

Slavery,  88,  90,  241,  261 

Smilax,  214 

Smith,  Henry,  xiv 

Snail,  165 

Snake,  211,  287 

Snow,  66,  73,  112,  185,  195,  363 

Snowdrop,  270 

Solitude,  31,  124,  141 

Sophocles,  quoted,  228 

Spenser,  quoted,  viii,  57 

Spiders,  205,  211,  215 

Spring,  94,  123,  138,  292,  354 

Squirrels,  68,  70,  75,  124,  174-176, 

181,  203,  282,  288 
Stars,  xx 
Steamboat,  34 
Stoic,  11 

Strawberries,  12,  278 
Street  (the  poet),  139-140,  153-155, 

167-168,  270 
Storer  (the  poet),  82,  329 
Style,  in  writing,  229,  234,  242 
Suckling  (the  poet),  171 
Sudbury  (the  river),  170,  172 
Sudbury  (the  town),  118,  143,  146- 

147,  211 
Summer  days,  116,   147,  151,  170, 

192,  215,  218,  331,  348 
Swamp,  15,  181,  217,  374 
Swede  (Linnaeus),  61 
Swedenborg,  157,  258,  320 
Sympathy,  29,  272 


TACITUS,  quoted,  262 

Tanager,  144 

Tang,  184 

Tansy,  215 

Tea,  42 

Teamsters,  185 

Telegraph-harp,  199-202 

[  395  ] 


THOREAU 


Temperance,  178 

Tennyson,  quoted,  vii 

Terence,  333 

Texas,  7 

Theatre,  108 

Themistius,  quoted,  280 

Theophrastus,  61 

Thoreau,  Cynthia  (the  mother),  5, 

342 

Thoreau,  Helen  (the  sister),  18 
Thoreau,  Henry,  his  ancestry,  3-4 

birth  and  childhood,  3-5,  18-19 

character,  6-18,  24-25,  31,  38,  67, 
88-89,  118-123 

diaries,  10,  65-66,  173-175,  339 

education,  32,  49,  61,  229,  254 

features,  17,  33 

journeys,  34-35, 42, 44, 65, 264, 334 

literary  work,  8,  17,  30,  50,  121, 
206,  232-239,  246,  255-256,  260, 
272,  343 

manual  skill,  7,  13,  24,  41-43 

moral  nature,  16,  25,  31,  83,  90 

moral  strictness,  208,  224,  241, 
248,  261,  336-337,  341 

originality,  20,  29,  39,  278 

religion,  90,  316,  320 

sickness  and  death,  334,  336,  347 

style,  38-39,  234 

temperament  and  traits,  8-9,  11, 
15,  18,  24,  33,  117,  121,  199,  329, 
337 

wildness,  20,  102,  341 

walks,  23,  35,  41,  45,  65-67,  70, 

97,  113,  128,  133-175 
Thoreau,  John  (the  father],  3,  7,  18, 

39 

Thoreau,  John  (the  brother),  13,  329 
Thoreau,  Sophia,  ix,  xiii 
Three  Friends,  166 
Tiberius,  316 


Titan,  51,  98,  198 

Toads,  245 

Toil,  12,  178 

Torso,  187 

Tortoise,  284-285 

Transcendentalist,  8 

Traps,  68,  85 

Travail,  42 

Truro,  271,  363 

Turner  (the  painter),  55,  253,  327 

Turtles,  88,  283,  288,  298 

Tusser,  61 

VALHALLA,  251 

Values,  20 

Van  Waagen,  187 

Varro,  60 

Vaughan  (the  poet),  quoted,   132, 

159,  169,  326 
Vendidad,  234 
Vermont,  8 
Viburnum,  193 
Violet,  139 
Vireo,  203 
Virgil,  50,  55,  203 
Vishnu,  50 
Vitruvius,  14,  191 
Voltaire,  quoted,  210 

UMBRELLA,  35,  42 
Universe,  86,  122,  139 

WACHUSETT  (mountain),  22, 107, 255, 

259,  319 
Wafer,  xix 

Walden  (the  book),  7,  8,  17,  38-39, 

55,  230,  232 
Walden  (the  lake),  7,  192,  207,  230, 

260,  275,  290,  299,  329,  347 
Walden  Woods,  23,  49,  55 
Walking,  Country,  xiii,  132 


[  396  ] 


INDEX 


Walks  and  Talks,  131-195,  305-328 
Walpole,  Horace,  xix 
Walton,  Izaak,  41 
Wanderer,  The  (poem),  xi 
Waterbury,  Ct.,  334 
Watson,  Marston,  xi,  311 
Wayland  (the  town),  23,  144 
Week,  The  (book),  9, 13, 17, 30, 38-39, 
49-55,  230,  232-233,  253,  259,  272 
Wellfleet  (the  town),  35 
Weston  (the  town),  4,  22,  169 
Whippoorwill,  148 
Wild  apples,  39,  246 
Wilson,  A.,  89 
Wilson,  Sir  Robert,  viii 
Wine,  71,  243,  274 


Winter,  148,  183,  193,  292,  319,  350, 

358,  370 

Wither  (the  poet),  quoted,  247 
Wood,  Anthony,  xix 
Woodchuck,  221 
Wood-thrush,  71 
Woods,  Maine  (the  book),  ix,  8,  254, 

340 
Wordsworth,  quoted,  88,  102,  280, 

340 
Wotton  (the  poet),  263 

YANKEE,  4,  234,  238 

York  Factory,  106 

Young  (the  poet),  quoted,  304 

Ygdrasil,  166 


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